By fifth grade we recited Dylan Thomas
with apocalyptic voices,
Lewis Carroll and Robert Frost.
At the time I didn’t recognize
the word diverge,
nor any yellow wood.
By thirteen I knew a bit more
about how to tell apart
ghost stories and a tale
one shouldn’t believe,
a dream one should never
find to be true: upon
reaching the end of a dark staircase,
when shaking a pressed leaf
from a book. By now all
the yellow woods I’ve seen
are blanketed in snow,
and the paths at the edge
blurring from remembrance.
Lined with stones from the sea.
For We Write Poems’ Prompt #106, Forks in the Road
Photo credit: blog.xuite.net
mabel lee 