Stopping by Shelter on a Snowy Morning
(with apologies to Mr. Frost)
Whose woods these are I think I know.
For travelers hiking through the snow,
On journeys long and short they walk
Maintaining paces fast or slow.
I see the shelter through the trees,
Red roof through forest beckons me
To stop and rest, put down my load,
And perhaps enjoy a reverie.
Approaching closer I see trash.
The stumps of trees so crudely bashed
Cut down to feed the fire pit.
A resource swiftly turned to ash.
In the shelter ruination.
I crave power to rudely sanction
Those who will always carry in,
But choose to decline extraction.
Bear box is approached with caution,
Skipping this is not an option.
Unlatched lid reveals the contents
And another need for action.
I load my pack, the fit is tight,
Fumes of fermented hops and rice.
It’s factory made and cheaply priced:
Why is it always Bud Lite?
No comments:
Post a Comment