“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood…”
observed Robert Frost,
Making it perhaps easier for a wandering calf
to choose between only two.
The calf becomes a mature bull, dominating in his presence
And the same path is followed by a mature man
who seeks a wiser, different course.
“And sorry I could not travel both…”
wrote Robert Frost,
As indeed he was:
For he could not have
a log home in the country
and a cliffside home in the city
and a place for his Troybilt tiller
and easy access to his community band.
“And be one traveler, long I stood…”
is what Robert frost did,
And while he stood
he drew a twenty-foot flowchart
and dubbed Wesley The Short Person
He poison-penned the locals and, remarkably,
found ponies in manure piles.
“And looked down one as far as I could…”
that’s what Robert Frost did;
Perhaps he could not see the end
Beyond years of statistical reports
and ever-changing administrations
with ever-the-same rules and follies
and half-funded, unrealized, golden opportunities
Yet, still, he made a difference.
“To where it bent in the undergrowth.”
was as far as Robert Frost could see,
But it was far enough.
So he “Then chose the other as just as fair…”
And proceeded on his calf-like way
A mature man strumming a guitar
Humming Ghost Riders as he went,
in a bass voice not heard on the other path
Preceded by a snare drum’s ghostly murmur.
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I…
I took the one less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference.”
We miss you, Robert Frost.
We’ll miss you too, Charlie.
May the rain fall soft upon your planted beans.