By ROB HIAASEN
Whose park this is I think I know
The homes rich in dock and show
No one will see me stopping here
To watch this park fill up with snow.
My little camera must think it queer
To stop without a skiff or pup near me
Between the benches and frozen cove
The whitest pier of the year.
I give my Grandfather's coat a shake
To ask if there was some mistake
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of snow splashed across the lake.
The park is lovely, light and deep
But I have relationships to keep
And miles to go before spring
And miles to go before spring.