A few weeks ago a bicycle appeared, parked on a side path that branches off of the primary footpath through our village. That footpath (really, for feet, bicycles and scooters) is heavily traveled, especially mornings and afternoons when school is in session.
We walked past the bike on many a lunch-time walk and errand, and periodically the bicycle would be in a different place. Sometimes it was parked right at the junction of the two paths, and other times it was half-way up the side path to the little quartier where we live.
I guess it's the writer in me - I see stories everywhere - and I kept wondering: whose bike is this? why is it parked here? who moves it? One day, as I was wondering, my brain started riffing on Robert Frost's poem, Stopping by 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.
You can read the rest of the poem here.
After we got home from our walk, I wrote today's poem - a lighthearted summer poem after Robert Frost's Snowy Evening.