I thought this poem might be appropriate for all of us in the Northeast, waiting on the wintery snow storm. It is a poem by Robert Frost, a poem many of us have read, a deceptively simple poem, complete, and minimalist in its accurate description of a snowy night, reflective and almost reluctant, in its final stanza.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
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.