A pot of stew simmering slow,
The house pervaded by its smell.
Hot fireplace embers aglow,
While in the yard fresh snowflakes fell.
Icicles beyond frosted panes
Testing the strength of iced gutters,
The highway reduced to two lanes,
As a stranded driver mutters.
Her car has skidded off the road,
And rests in a deep drift of snow.
No cell phone to call to be towed,
How bad the storm, no way to know.
She eases from the left side door,
Pushing the mounded snow aside,
Mindful of muted traffic’s roar,
Down a grade she began to slide.
Her stockings soon were soaking wet,
As she struggled up a steep hill.
No boots or gloves, to her regret,
Through her jacket she felt the chill.
In the woods, she saw a dim light,
And trudged off in that direction,
Reaching a house in the dark night,
From which came the light’s reflection.
Hoping that she might use the phone,
She rang the bell, stamped her cold feet,
And waited, hearing the chimes tone
Three chords and once again repeat.
Freezing now, she tried the doorknob
That turned easily in her hand.
Thinking, an easy home to rob,
Standing alone on wooded land.
Slowly she stepped through the front door,
And the smell of stew filled her nose.
This aroma hard to ignore,
Straight into the kitchen she goes.
In minutes, she’d eaten the stew,
And sat down by the fireplace,
Where she napped, so tired she grew,
A contented smile on her face.
Shortly, soft footsteps could be heard,
Coming down the darkened hall stairs.
“Goldilocks?” was the whispered word,
And in walked the three hungry bears.
© By RickMack (Rmrickmack@aol.com)