(For Pure Luck, and with full credit and apologies to Robert Frost.)
Whose woods these are? The city's, so
I stop to walk my dog while snow
keeps falling everywhere and here
is a good place for dogs to go.
My great big dog gives me his ear
and follows staying very near
to see which path his "mom" will take
although her choices may seem queer.
The woods grow dark and deep, a flake
of snow and more — a million — make
a late storm — oh! I wish to weep.
He gives his collar tags a shake,
for grey berries begin to leap.
He bounds away, his vow to keep
of squirrels to chase before we sleep,
of squirrels to chase before we sleep.
(Yes, what we really needed was more snow, because clearly, we didn't have enough already.)