Frost said it this way:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And sorry I can remember no more of the poem
except for the impression it leaves of
the strain in the eye for squinting
the wear on the soles for walking
and the bitter, the sweet
obligation to choose.
Two cells split from the zygote,
before I became anything more.
Before I became the blastomere – that lumpy group of cells
that clung to the wall of the uterus –
clung and clawed to secure and root myself
before I even learned to walk or think,
plot the narrow path of escape to breathe the air of this world.
And inside those
two cells was everything I would ever need
Two spots filled my vision
when I looked at the sun
and then I could see nothing else.
Two words fell
as if from the sky. One dug into me
under the skin
so it could incubate
burrow like a tick
suck the body of blood,
bone of marrow
until my life sapped dry.
The other touched the ground
fell like a
snowflake, nourished the whole world
when it melted into the soil.
Created a path in the dirt
some way firm to put the feet.
And being one traveler
I walked upon it.
© 2009 Andrew Kooman