Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I stood staring at the fork.
The first unsteady in footing
ever changing from warmth, perfection
to harsh ice and snow.
A path took multiple times through adolescence
and attempted once in adulthood - but it ran.
My feet would fall comfortably
upon its uncertain touraine.
Its journey leading to lime light. . .
or devistation. . .
mayhap even happiness.
The second lay out adjacent to familiarity
A new choice freshly revealed.
The yellow wood of a novel begining
shadowing the pine floor beneath.
warm sunlight floods through the ceiling
and yet looks can decive -
the only way to know is to continue
upon its unplotted mystery.
I take my first step . . .