November Now.

Well here I am again, stuck in my personal
Robert Frost poem.

Leaves blow on both paths and sharp twigs and branches poke through,
snap. and. crackle.
It's gray out and my
purple scarf smells like my honey granola bar.
My sneakers dont protect from the chill
of the stone I balance on.

I'm here alone, it's what I envisioned this to be.
As things come together, I usually come apart.
But independence and silence
is what woods at dusk offer you.

So I take it in. Stride. One path is wide and familiar
flat and safe.
Another dips, rolls, narrows, and disappears around a large rock.
What's there? A field? Meadow? Rocky death ravine?
Who knows.
Or cares.

I'll hang out under rust colored dead leaves.
Surrounded by cold rocks and far away birds.
Spotlight sun will set and I will be here.
Until white-faced moon peeks through barbed branches,
And peers down at two paths
and a cold gray stone.
All alone.