Two roads converged in a yellow wood
(and neither of them looked too good),
one leading off to some small town,
and the other wandering all around
like a less-beaten path I think should.
This forced duality for life struck me
with the limits of its possibility;
if only two ways seem to lead
from each new spot, then ’tis indeed
not much a choice, it seemed to me.
For why an old path, not a new one
blazed through underbrush, for fun,
to see what else is in the world;
beyond the map-edge, torn and curled,
the journey’s often just begun.
And so I stepped off the concrete,
finding just grass under my feet,
and made a path from where I stood,
leaving both roads for that wood;
and the journey so far has been sweet.
19 FEB 2003
Exercise: take a line from an existing poem and write a new poem based on that line. The line I chose was from Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken.
