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.

Silence envelopes her as she stands in the lane, her eyes scanning through the thicket of trees. Snow falls softly, quietly, and gently dusting the trees, the road, and the thestral behind her in white powder. She doesn't seem to notice. Her eyes are trained on those trees, on that forest, memories playing behind her eyes like slides. Teasing. Tempting.

It has been months since she's thought of this place, years since she has been here and yet she can smell the lilac in bloom, hear the birds singing. Feel his lips on her skin as if it was still the first day of spring four years ago and they were still together, still young, still hopeful.

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.

The thestral nudges her, its dragonish face pressing into her shoulder, pressing her to move on but she does not. To her it is not winter in the lane, but springtime in the forest and they are running among the wildflowers, walking barefoot in the lapping mouth of the lake, making love under the dogwood trees as petals fall around them like snowflakes.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

She shivers against the cold, against the memories of a blond haired boy thrust too soon into manhood and into a contract with the devil signed not by his own hand but by his father's. She remembers silver eyes and calloused hands running all over her body in a way that no man has ever again been able to mimic or even come close to.

She sighs heavily, turning back to the great winged horse, running her hand down his scaled nose and leading him further down the lane. Her husband, her children, her life are waiting for her. But as she glances back, she lets a piece of her shattered heart leave her and flutter wistfully back into those trees, to dream of another time.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.