The Garden of Forking Paths

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 

Leave some footprints:

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: