Two neurons diverge in a  graying brain
And troubled. I must listen to both 
And be one thinker long I strain 
And follow the logical terrain 
To where it burrows into overgrowth. 

Then took the other pinging alarm 
And stating a more compelling claim 
Because it's within reach of arm, 
Though as potential for health or harm, 
They seem roughly about the same 

And this time they equally lay 
Across synapses trodden black 
Oh I'd keep one for another day 
Yet I know how way leads us to infinite way 
I doubt if I'll be turning back 

I shall be telling this through tears 
In some breakdown ages hence 
Two neurons diverged in graying fears 
And I let them burn both far and near 
And that remains the difference.

As the Spring temperatures flirt with summer heat, I’m feeling Frosty.
As long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by Frost’s divergent roads.
The divergence in me sees the divergence in you.
Namaste frosty, right?

Frost spoke of way leading on to way. How one decision leads to another decision leads to another decision until that seemingly crucial node recedes into a cloud of could have been. I can’t help but go back to my beloved Prufrock’s revisions and revisions before the taking of toast and tea.
I sip my coffee this afternoon with a coffee spoon.

It’s easy to analyze until my hands are paralyzed by indecision. To be so mindful of an action that I can’t help but contemplate the permutations before me.
But we walk backward into the future, only seeing the past clearly.
Talk about kicking your guard down.
McLuhan said artists are the only ones who see the future.
But I’d add to that this caveat:
It’s through a glass. Darkly.

As I magpie this by borrowing and rearranging concepts from greater minds than I…
I rest in the nest of their observations, and tonight I might sleep.