Here I stand at the Y, scuffing against the frozen dirt,
the chill about me thaws, yet not quite the warmth before.
To the left abound golden fields, rich and inviting,
A tranquil path, open and uncrowded, sight for miles.
Parallel, the verdant forest stands, speckled, noisy,
the fruitful land full of eddies, earthen and rich.
To pull left is long supposed, borne in mental dominance,
where is distance clear and naught is shrouded,
the land itself feeding many, itself being fed;
but strong-hearted is the right, the future overflowing,
small paths within the roots, growing up, one and two – then ten,
the life-filled folds of trees a strong embrace,
fed by the none-so-distant fields, tended by those there called.
The cold breeze brushes up behind me, pushing –
for I cannot stand here forever, but am conflicted;
turn, turn, turn back, left to right to right to left.
Winter is ending; new life shall erupt, field or forest,
and I can walk but one, unto its end.
I step; fades the chill and warm breeze draws me on.