Stopping by the woods for a snowy new year

Certainly a second post ought to be written about our time in Shasta to ring in an Irish new year; after all I organized none of the logistics. However looking back over Erik's pictures of our adventure in the snow and stay in the spiritual dodecahedron reminded me of Frost’s “Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening”. Some people say this poem is about death, but I think Frost was a simple man and stated what he meant: he was in some lovely woods, in the snow, and he was quite fond of the scene.

So here is an ode to Frost and a few of my favorites of the pictures Erik took (the full album can be found here).

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.