Sonnet I

Deep in a forest where nobody goes, With tangled underbrush, thick as the night, A river of confusion and doubt flows. A branching and winding diverging site. One path: littered with traps and sharpened thorn. Another: feral and dangerously dense. The next: the flora prettily adorn. The fourth: divine light shines, and beckons hence. Next: playful creatures elude my each touch. Sixth: dangerous, unpredictable, stay back! Sequent: some friendly foliage and such. Final: lonely, desolate, long and black. His back is chilled by a cold, biting gale. He takes his first step on his chosen trail.Okay, I don't have anything against Robert Frost, but I needed a title, and his poem is the only one I could think of that consisted of choosing a path in the woods. Comment, please! Written March 6th, 2002 © on Mar 06 2002 12:25 PM PST   18 • 0 • 10