STOPPING BY THE 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.

* So here is Frost at his best. A rural setting in days gone by. But the message about keeping promises carries through the ages. Perhaps this poem was written to fulfill a promise to an editor or such? lol. But promises and contracts Do bind honorable men to the extent that they might well only pause and observe beauty before going on to their tasks.

So here's my "modernized" version which he might have written if he were alive today :

FOR ONCE, TO SEE

I've sped this interstate before
but with horses racing 'neath the hood
while thoughts of work pecked at my core;
no attention spared for field or wood.

But this afternoon the snow flakes swarm
clearing most traffic from my route.
I change heater to hot from warm
attempting to keep the chill out.

Then suddenly I'm forced to slow
by a wave of sudden thick whiteout
and as I gradually cease to go
I take time to think and look about.

Dense deep woods march from either side
cloaked in a shroud of purest white
which blowing snow's trying to hide
and likely will before the night.

In a near blink the snow is past
and all is clearly on display,
all this beauty I've often passed
while speeding on my merry way.

I'd rather stay but have to go
for there's much to do before day's done
so I start my truck in twilight's glow.
Tasks and time await no one.