Two roads but I am not the traveler
nor the sentry at the gate. I am
one tree of many
the unseen parts of
self unfurling in the dark,
easing into earth and permanence
of bedrock, reaching for the warmth of magma.
It rises up, echoes heat, the pulsing beat
of a heart contained.
My hands rustle
into cloud, make shadow
shapes against the sun, shelter space
where travelers – tired from their travails –
pause to eat. They pass bread
and butter and laugh
at the realization of fingers.
I watch them eat, butter-slick lips
stretched to smiles, puckered to kisses.
I taste worms and sunlight.
They etch themselves into my skin, and
Whichever the road,
they will not.
Poet's Note: A poem about the choices we do not regret...