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We move like Frost at his impasse,

Brought to a halt when faced with a decision.


Time slows down for us and we circle each other, and the trees, speculating.

I weigh my options and try to mask my desire for you to choose me 


Last night I dreamt we were in a car you were driving 

I asked if you loved me and you said “absolutely.”


The leaves, golden and rusty and scarlet, crunch under my boots and yours. 

Branches loom, nearly bare and 

Full of ambivalence.


The yellow wood knows nothing of decisions;

It is a peaceful and accepting, unlike my wretched pumping heart.

There are not two roads here but several, more than I care to count.


I look at you and I see my life spread out before me like a Thanksgiving feast.

We live near the Redwood Forest,

Our children with hair the color of autumn leaves,

“Somewhere ages and ages hence.”


And yet, 

All we may need is a brisk trot through the

Shallow part of the woods.

I will return home again,



We find ourselves caught.

We could walk together and sometimes run,

And find ourselves parting halfway through the wood.


There is no way of knowing where we will find ourselves,

What will make all the difference?

And each of these trails has its own winding twists and turns.

We have no map nor wisdom to serve us.


Instead, we sit and occasionally pace,

Under the gaze of the undergrowth.

I am only one traveler, and all I can seem to do is


as published in october hill magazine's fall 2017 issue

as published in october Hill magazine fall 2017

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