There's a poem about trees and there are poems about winter; there's poetry about whose woods they were and answers about strange thoughts on the darkest day of the year, but this photo says it all. If only Frost could have seen this scene. Robert Frost. How do I know he hasn't seen this, the way the snow fell on the evergreen, the path where a neighbor passed by and then passed away in late afternoon. The wonder of the winter then, the way the winters since have been, those footprints long ago, melted and forgotten by most everyone but his son. It was a winter of long ago, one nobody recalls, like most winters. Winters are never remembered the way the springs are. The footprints are best lost in the winter snows. Did he know there would be no more springs in store for him?
Posted 6 months ago in my Flickr Photostream.
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