THE FROST TAKES NOT THE ROAD

The woods are yellow and diverge at the roads.
Both roads and woods travel, but that doesn’t make me sorry.
Standing long, I become a traveler. One traveler.
I could be far down, I could look
at the undergrowth, it bends to where. Where?
Fair and just is the other, then it is took.
Wear what you want, Grassy, and because
There you pass: is if for though?
The same is about as really as them, worn,
laid equally in the morning, both
Black and trodden, stepped in leaves.
Day is another, a first kept “OH”
Way on it leads to way how, knowing yet
Back it comes if I should ever doubt.
Sign is this telling, it shall be I.
Hences ages and ages become somewhere.
I and the wood diverge into two roads
By traveling less, one takes me–
difference is all that has made that.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007