I can't spin a rhyme like Robert Frost,
And my roads don't forge through a yellow wood,
But at the cusp of my own forked course,
I'd borrow his hindsight if I could!


I could use some writing in the sky,
An insightful dream, or an audible voice
But since that's unlikely, I'll just sit a while,
Gather my wisdom and make my choice


And some day hence perhaps I'll look back.
I wonder how important this point will seem then?
Two roads diverge ahead, and whichever the chosen track,
I'm sure I'll learn something for when a fork comes round again.


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