The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I find it interesting that Frost entitled his poem the road not taken. Suggesting, I suppose, that it is just as important to not choose one as it is to choose the other. I have just made one of the hardest decisions of my life. And in not choosing what I did, I have found peace and relaxation. In not choosing one, I accepted myself and who I am. In not choosing one, I came to terms with the reality of me. Perhaps the things we eschew say more about us than the things we embrace. Either way, I have found that I can fully enjoy the beauty of the path I'm on. And that will make all the difference.

April, Come She Will

Variations on: April, Come She Will

by Simon and Garfunkel

"April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;"

Spring rekindles hope anew within me. I am constantly renewed with hope for life. A beautiful life. A pure life. A hope I dare not invest in. Unspoiled, like the blossoming fields or newborn children. Fresh with hope for a better tomorrow.


"May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again."

As spring moves into summer, I feel myself try to hold on to that purity. I want to grasp the hope. Inadvertently I begin to crush it with my fear. The longing I have to be innocent again begins to soil that which was once also pure.


"June, she'll change her tune,
In restless walks she'll prowl the night;"

All too predictably hope becomes listless when faith wanes. And forsaking me, leaves the hole deeper and darker than it ever could have been without her.


"July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight."

Thus sullied, hope leaves for good. As suddenly as she appeared, she disappears.


"August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I'll remember
A love once new has now grown old."

Dying thusly is seems impossible to imagine how, or if, I will make it through the winter. Perhaps this time, I will not.