What roads diverge in my soul,

of love and desire.

To travel on a wooded road,

to make camp and read poetry

by a warm fire.

I’ve told people I’m a counselor,

a craftsman of words.

But who is it that really knows me,

when alone, in the wood, with the birds?

Somewhere in my future,

Robert* will return.

And in this weary soul of mine,

his ideas will churn.

As my mornings begin to equal that of his,

I will recognize the undergrowth,

with a knowing,

that…this is the way it is.

And I…will slow down,

on this road —

I’ve traveled on

so fast.


copyright 2003.

*Robert Frost


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