One of Robert Frost’s (great name in relation to
today!) most famous poems was “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” I wonder
how his verses might have come out if his subject matter had been mine this morning:
the view from a bus stop a couple of minutes from my home in Englewood, NJ?
This scene looks—in its way, from a safe distance—lovely.
But negotiating the descending snow, then the resulting slush and ice—shoveling
it, tiptoeing around the stuff on the way to and from work—is, not to put too
fine a point on it, brutal, the furthest thing from lyrical that I can imagine
at the moment.
No comments:
Post a Comment