Alone I stand barefoot on a floor of broken glass.
Two doors across the way in front of me.
One door leads to my salvation, the other quite possibly damnation.
Though neither door is marked, it's true they are unremarkably the same
The choice for me remains all too clear.
Smooth glass on the left, sharp and twisted to the right
I take a breath and step upon the path, blood pouring from my feet.
The pain is somehow sweet, for I see the blood of others gone before.
Persistence in spite of pain brings life's greatest gains, and I smile as light floods through the opening door.
I took the path less traveled as old man Frost would surely agree, and that less traveled path has made all the difference in me.

I recall the day I first saw you, amid the frigid depths of winter, as I sought even a trace of warmth from the sun. My gaze found that warmth in you. When you drew near, you stunned me, clasping my cold hands in yours, imbuing them with warmth. I remember, too, the day I waited in that same chill for one final glimpse of you—only to be left, forsaken, my hands still cold, yearning for the warmth you once brought.

I would be this gentle mist that lingers
On autumn’s flowered field—
Yet I wish I could be a golden sunbeam,
Painting my lover's lashes in a gilded haze.
But that is not me. With gentle kisses,
I **** the summer’s flowers;
I am the coldness they fear.
I wrap the earth within my arms, but blind its sight—
My love summons winter’s night to arrive,
Stilling the pulse of all that once breathed life.
I swear my love brings death to every chamber,
But maybe that is the price we’re meant to pay.
For love and pain have always been entwined,
And when we bleed, as everyone must one day,
We will bleed as one.

-Sonja Kettunen (ig: @sojafoxpoetry)

It’s not the dank, damp, grey days.
It’s not the drizzle that seeps through the seams of my coat.
It’s not the dark mornings.
It’s not the dark evenings.

It’s the crisp air of an early morning frost.
It’s the spiders’ webs glistening with frozen dew.
It’s the shades and hues as the leaves turn golden.
It’s the peace and quiet as nature settles down for her long sleep.

Robert Frost
Loved and lost
Much
But never lost his touch.

Golden Sunlight unfolds herself from the cracks of the frozen earth
Like silk, her fingers warm and soft against my cheek

She stands herself gracefully from among the glittering frost,
Tending to the falling and calling for the lost

She softens the scrape of black trees against the thin skin of the sky
And offers forgiveness from the endless nightly cry

In the middle of the journey of your life
you had wandered from the straight path.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and you took both of them.
You broke on through to the other side
but came back stateside pretty often.
Being lied about, you stopped lying.
From men and women you could sometimes require
the lineaments of gratified desire.
Clouds may wander, lonely,
but you’re pretty good at finding company.