February 1, 2004

• In a wood, lovely dark and deep
  

  ---

  
  

  (appolagies to Frost on slaughtering his words)

  
  

  The wood is in Bretton Woods, NH

  
  

  
  

  The hotel glared at me with
   multi-faceted dark eyes, its
   pennonons twitching and
   snapping, beckoning its warm
   fireplaced embrace.

  
  

  
  

  I went on through the open
   field with the crisp air, to the
   cold sun.

  
  

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  Who is the small insignificant
   creature making his way
   through this frozen heaven?

  
  

  
  

  The mountains bearded with
   tufts of pine, cloud capped,
   and mist shrouded; as God
   looked down from peaks lit in
   weak winter white.

  
  

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

  And I entered here, the wood
   dark and deep and
   wonderous and cold.

  
  

  
  

  Where does this go, tracks in
   the snow and icecles in my
   beard I look for the Yurt, my
   face and hands hurt from
   cold's puppy toothed bite,
   bitter loving felt here in a
   place of incredible white;
  a home without heart.

  
  

  
  

  
  ... more later 

  • 11:34 am
  • 3 Comments