Whose Woods These Are

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I awoke to my first snow of the season dusting the rooftops, fence posts and trees of Malejovice. The woods called to me and so I donned hiking boots and set out over the fields to the forest. The snow sifted quietly, the mud of the unpaved road sucked at my feet and the utter silence filled my heart.

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Arriving in the forest felt like entering the haunts of Hansel and Gretel.  I stepped past the trickling brook and into the peace of the sheltering pine trees. The pine needles cushioned my steps and the trilling of birds and patter of melting snow the only sounds. I passed a fallen tree, it’s root system an earthy sculpture.  Pine cones and balsam branches decorated the forest floor.  Mossy tree stumps stirred memories of nature walks with my dad when I was very young. He used to point them out to me and tell me that they were fairy castles.

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I stood still and closed my eyes and listened. The first poem that I learned and memorized at age seven welled up from within.
“Whose Woods these are
I think I know.
His house is in the village though.
He will not mind me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely dark and deep.
But I have promised to keep
And mikes to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep.”
Robert Frost

Indeed I knew that friends and breakfast awaited. I reluctantly left the silence of the woods and headed back to the warmth of Malejovice over fields glistening in the melting snow.

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2 thoughts on “Whose Woods These Are

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