Left or right?
Which shall I choose?
As I stand here alone,
I see two avenues,
unfolding infinitely in two very different directions.
One door leads left,
and the other right.
The left leads towards the unknown,
a striking and cold mountain range,
stark against the sky,
regal in its beauty,
the biting chill,
sharp against my skin,
a redwood jutting from the stone,
in the cold I grow aware.
The right leads an open meadow,
a familiar hum brushing against the grain,
sunflowers as far as the eye can see,
the smell draws my eyes towards a solitary object,
a single tree,
scared bark,
with my name scribbled against its skin,
I can feel a certain warmth in the breeze.
Both choices are beautiful,
both serene,
from the orange of summer skies,
a rainbow strewn against canvas,
to the white of winter as the wind sings,
swept between mountain crag.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)