Whose sky this is I surely know.
It’s every ones with all its glunk.
None sees me stopped here in the snow
To moan these skies filled with space junk.

My car’s horses pollute that air;
Idling alone, no home-fire near,
Twixt woods, plasticized lake and seas —
Headlights still bright each darkened year.

I rev the motor till it shakes
As if to sound-out these mistakes.
Then, deep breaths within the wind’s sweep
And stars still bright as snowy flakes.

Lovely skies-waters, dark and deep,
Hurt for promises we must keep.
Light-years to search before we sleep.
Light years to search before we sleep.

[Would Frost agree with this current rendering of his “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening”? He’d see the need, I’m sure. And, Yeats would see the opening, I’m sure, for a “recast” of his “Leda and the Swan” together with part of his “The Second Coming,”  as I did in “AUGURIES”– p. 298. My first such “recasts,” was “My Last Magic Hat,” of Browning’s “That’s My Last Duchess…Looking As If She Were Alive,” on p. 231 of AUGURIES. — While my “recasts” will grasp no place in the “world’s literature,” they called-out this poet’s response to a “grasping” felt in all three.  — Some twenty or so years from this 2019, I challenge the poets then to “recast” these three to their time. O how I wish I could read those. Van Gogh’s impressionistic painting “The Starry Night” was with me here. As ages pass — it will probably hold as is.]

mdok