Yellow Wood

”Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler...” — Robert Frost THE ROAD NOT TAKEN YELLOW WOOD there was the coworker’s hangup, the incessant line, the deathroom imagery — i did not see the ugly parts but i live the yellow wood, not only my facts. lately my face in the mirror morphs into relatives, even in my dreams, as if it was all natural. the eyes, cheeks sunken in, sharp chin of a heart — i’m seeing the dead and the sick, also me with my wrinkles and grays. i look outside my blue windows, wanting the life that was so lively last year. i see the same leaves, crisp and broken but there’s a sadness this Fall and a wondering — will life restart… i live for what energizes me — the communion of song in the sanctuary. i cling to every note that touches the hem of Jesus and mercy of his cross, salvation and life everlasting. my husband and i, side by side, the apples of our eyes — our children; and grandchildren on my lap, on the phone or perpetually on my mind, in my prayers in my hope and blessing; their voices and snapshots, gold. longing for the retelling of the past. i see it, within my grasp — to tell me who or what i am. this generation may not care, but i care, with a deep longing to share, not living in the past but coloring the present; the mind has unlimited fare. 11/16/2020