Whose woods these are I think I know

Greg Unger

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…

A members’ writing from The Anthology — this is an honest preview. Read the full piece on The Book of Unger.