The woods are lovely, dark and deep…

Yesterday began with a thick swath of fog and a crisp layer of frost.  This type of weather always makes me want to venture to the Snohomish River.  The low farmland valley collects the mists in its marshes while the frosty twigs twinkle in the sun.  I brought Joey and the kids with me and we went for a drive and to lunch at the bakery. We saw a great big raven perched on a low branch over the road, a gnarled black tree speckled with bright red apples, a white horse in a green swamp, and hawks swooping for mice.  My favorite was a big white skeleton of a tree backed up against a dark forest.  Joey read this Robert Frost poem as we were driving back home:

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

After our day in the wilds, Joey and I went to the pub to write.  We were given so much scope for the imagination, I’ve found myself writing bits from it ever since.

One thought on “The woods are lovely, dark and deep…

  1. Lovely . . . I spent all of my elementary years in the neighborhoods right above the Snohomish valley. We could see hot air balloons and sky-divers out our dining room window on what-felt-like a daily basis. I still remember “the big flood” . . . maybe 1990? 1991? . . . when the entire valley was flooded three-fourths the way up the telephone poles and we didn’t have school for weeks. It was amazing.

    So fun to hear about. And what a glory it is to have a kindred spirit! So needed, always, but particularly during these intense early years of mothering. What a balm for the soul. :)

    And I do love that Robert Frost poem . . . lovely woods, dark and deep, haunt my dreams out here in the midst of the vast prairies torn asunder.

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