

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.


I wander around my community appreciating all the personal touches my neighbors have done to their houses. Forsythia and crocuses are in bloom in pots outside the row houses. Tulips are making their large-leaf appearances. Daffodils abound.
This afternoon I talked with an environmental activist involved in a community garden, neighborhood events in Fort McHenry, a national park up the street. It is wonderful to find good people making the world a better place. I feel blessed.
