Frost clings to the redwoods,
Crunch lies bare on the winter floor
The winding paths all look alike despite
The compass you inherited from an elder.
Up ahead is the fabled fork in the road,
Seek this way and you’ll find
The vista point atop the steepest climb,
Back the other is the lakeshore
Along which to set up camp.
Neither route is without its anguishes
Neither without its triumphs and yet
The one true choice remains: would you rather
The one hosting settlements of ‘what ifs,’ or
The other boasting an anthology of ‘why nots’?