Who's 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.
It is a lovely winter's night here in Pittston, Maine. The moon is high and full, and the air is crisp and clear. The temperature is a balmy 25 degrees, just perfect for a moonlight ice skate! Now, for you folks reading this in the Southern Hemisphere, I am sure your summer moon is just as lovely, but it's rare when winter conditions are this good up here. So, tonight I couldn't resist lacing up my skates and heading out onto the little river that borders my property.
I know that the river may not be properly frozen as we just had a flood on it last week. However, the field that borders it was flooded out too, and now is coated in three inches of flat, hard ice. I figured if I fell through I should only get my laces wet. So after partaking of a nice warm glass of Gluhwein, I bundled up and laced up. Too bad I didn't smarten up. It took me just a few moments to realize that the lame excuses I made of why I shouldn't do this were in reality perfectly rational and sound reasons for staying inside. An eight year old body-- heck, a twenty-eight year old body does not impact the ice the same way as a forty-eight year old body does. I could give you details, but suffice it to say that it was really all about gravity, and bodies in motion, etc.
So, as I sit here with an ice pack on my right elbow, and my left buttock in a sling, I think I'll pass on any more moonlight ice skating for the time being. Not the Gluhwein, though. I'll keep that coming.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep;
Like the one I just made
To stick to painting as soon as I heal.