I am walking down a road less traveled,
brush thick with thorn and stiffened bramble,
the air abuzz of insect flight
as I wield my knife against the blight.
Bearing cuts of splintered fingers
who scratch and tear my shins and waist,
the thicket seems to grow yet thicker,
the blisters too accumulate.
No clearing can I look forward to.
No buried treasure, nor Dragon’s lair.
I merely walk the road less traveled
for all those paved are my despair.
And all things paved hide what is yearning,
and all things paved will crack with wear.
But I prefer the way less traveled,
to find the hope I’ve hidden there.
© Saying Sooth 2018
Photo taken by Saying Sooth, late fall 2017
Thank you Robert Lee Frost (1874-1963).