Caleb Gibson's Poetry Flyer
The Sled on the Hill
The Sled on the Hill
The hillside glistened as the light touched the newfangled snow
I gazed up, at the interminable mountain and stepped my foot forward
A frosty zephyr blew, giving my nose a shiver
I clutched my sled in hand and trekked up the passageway
Step after step, I reached the peak
Looking back at my footsteps, I saw how far I had traveled
I positioned my sled at the highest point
And looked down at what I was about to conquer
I pushed off and held tight
The fresh powder shot up into my face
And the ice cold sensation running across my cheeks
My grip on the rope became weak
Then I let go
I tumbled down the hill, the only thing I saw, white
I came to a halt
Dusted off the snow off my face
And turned around, looking back at the hillside, ready for more
Stopping By Woods on a Snowing 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