A wood of gold
where winds
whisper
tales ne’er told
of young and old.
I stand alone.
A fork has stopped
my wandering feet
the beat
of my steps
now broken before
two roads along
the forest floor.
Frost, I think,
could this truly be?
The place where he
once stood
so still
in morning’s chill
of the yellow wood?
One road true
tried
and beat,
trodden down
by many feet.
The other
writhes and twists
through mist —
a test.
A quest
of purest heart.
Dear Frost,
I know your choice
your voice
the one less traveled by
but I
know not which path
is mine.
The one I choose —
the road ne’er traveled,
the way unmarked.
Neither road for me.
I’ll make
my own way
and perhaps someday
a traveler will stand here
again
and choose the path
I have laid.
I wade among
wingstems
and thistles,
beauty with pain
I gladly claim
in a wood of gold
where winds
whisper
tales ne’er told
of young and old
and passerby
who forged a trail
ne’er traveled by.
Written in March 2013
