A bleak cold winter’s gray weighted sky,
No crunch of leaves reduced underfoot,
Imagining the whats, wheres, and whys,
Brilliance muted, sodden, élan dies,
Contemplating the variant route.
I detest this season; is that wrong?
In six months I’ll search then to compare:
Cerulean sky, June days prolonged,
Two yellow birds in a birch chirp songs.
Either road taken now leads nowhere.
Choices, free will, was I mistaken
To rejoice in social starvation?
Confined by my mind’s fears, left shaken,
Content without ground undertaken,
Searching for self-realization.
Hope for the new day: vault each travail,
Find diversion in every season.
Life’s next forked road: leap, provoke, regale.
A trial today, tomorrow a tale.
Live with purpose, not within reason.
1/1/2021 (A lot from Lydia)
Happy New Year, friends! That was my response to Robert Frost, written as I ended 2020 with a blinding migraine. I still feel a slight squeeze of the vice on my head 24 hours later. This reminds me that we only have twenty days left until our collective headache is expelled. I think we might make it!
There is a sun shining behind those clouds!