This Side of the Flowers
— for Robert Frost
Countless dirt roads arose in a yellow wood
and sorry I watched as they unrolled,
randomly merged and split, an interweave
which blotted out life until earth bent from view
beneath the broad, blue expanse of heaven.
All lay beige and barren
where numberless feet had trod,
each bit of ground as dead as another,
affording an equal view.
Long I stood until I knelt at last
and drew a vast forest in dust.