Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

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.

(Robert Frost)

Skagway Respite

Hurrying freezing streets,
between uninteresting gift shops,
I am sucked into a large,
warm, bookshop.

Canned music fades,
the air fills with something
instantly recognizable.
The smell and feel of live music.

Searching for it among narrow,
rickety bookshelves, a hole
in the wall leads to a coffee bar
overcrowded with silent listeners.

The musical epicenter is the drum -
a table - serving as, instrument, stage
and music rest, tightly bound by
singers and guitar players.

Standing at the entrance
I am drawn in by the music,
excitement and warmth
held back by an invisible wall

Endemic people's gazes
and feelings burn
as they shine on me
snooping on their worship

(WRM in Scagway Alaska)