The poem Robert Frost never wrote

Sesshin on a Snowy Evening

Whose house this is I do not know.
He might think that we're crazy though;
To sit for days atop his rug
Staring at the floor plug.

My workmates think it's awfully queer
To take my work holiday time here
Getting up at 4 AM
And sitting still for hours on end.

"But wait!" I futilely explain,
"There's cake at end of day, and also
The beauty of the sound of rain. And have I mentioned
What strength comes from letting go into pain?"

They give their heads a shake
And think that I'm a hippie flake.
Admittedly on dark mornings
I think they're right, this is a mistake.

But sesshin has power, dark and deep
And there are vows we want to keep,
When we are dead there's time to sleep.
When we are dead there's time to sleep.