The Fork in the Road

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’?

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