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Roads and Forks
We've come to a point
A fork
however short the tines might be,
in a rutted road
that offers us few choices
Which we only need to come to
some sort of firm decision about
To continue traveling.
In an ambling Sunday stroll fashion
But, pity us,
Our fork is quickly becoming a rake
The tines numerous and blunted
To gather fallen leaves
So there are now a dozen out-comes
to choose from, some impaling leaves
Others blissfully ignorant of
Changed seasons and birds singing
winter songs
I am afraid of leaving the choice solely up to you
But more afraid of doing the choosing myself,
Unfortunately.
Growing only older in body
I've come to discover that
I'm not as smart as I thought I would be.
So its up to us.
Which paved way do we take?
Which bumpy, dusty road?
12:48 am
June 13, 2003
