“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.



Upon the departure of my friend Charlie Kendall,

September 1987



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