the fork

ambling along a winding dirt trail
i come to a fork, with two distinct branches
my hands clasp together, the humid air’s stale
i check both directions to ponder my chances

the left branch is rocky and treacherous too
i fear i might slip and fall almost a mile
the trail has briars, the handgrips are few
and it spirals around on itself for a while
the sun seems to beat with a hundred degrees
and show off its brawn with a blinding white stare
the snickering footpath is deaf to my pleas
while hedges and ledges scream: “traveler beware!”
the journey’s exciting and leaves me some hope
that success-–though uncertain-–will help me to cope

the right branch is lazy with nothing to hide
it flows and meanders through meadows and farms
the trail-–while ragged-–is level and wide
and relentlessly coaxes me into its arms
the cloudy grey skies emit boredom and sighs
a tired old wind holds perpetual reign
far in the distance a lone drifter cries
as the biting cold steadily drives him insane
this other path’s dull but much safer for sure
i know i’ll survive and my strength will endure

having assessed both the paths that i’m facing
(which brings me happiness? which brings me sorrow?)
my arms fall akimbo and mind ceases racing
i sit at the fork and i wait for tomorrow

2.09
s.d.