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(a response to Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”)

Whose woods they were, I think I knew,
and while I know you’ve spoken true,
when you held promises to keep,
you left your spirit, passing through.

The cold, your friend, against the sleep,
As well, your foe, towards the deep.
For living well, we poets know
that death, the price of life, is steep.

Your frosted breaths amidst the snow
have drifted more than wind will blow,
past roughest roads and miles of cars.
What man can say how far they’ll go?

Will they endure past mankind’s wars,
take flight beyond the skies of Mars?
Will snow filled peace become the stars
and signal back, to us pulsars?

) written to a prompt over at DversePoets (