Writing to decide

The muse visits me rarely, particularly where poetry is concerned. That said, sometimes I retreat into language, meter, and allegory to move through a morass of conflicting opinions (some mine, some belonging to friends) and come out the other side having made some progress. The results are generally mixed but committing to a poem can be like committing to a decision and hopefully that will be the case today.

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Keep an eye out for two white blazes
You were right when you said:
"You liked me best the summer before we fell in love."
When our flutter-hearted, weak-kneed greetings
made inroads to my walled off mind;
and all our words rhymed perfectly with dawn.
Two years later I sat with the words you wrote.
A single sheet of paper that meant more
than all the empty promises we made.
I made.
Even now you don't know that I keep the phrase:
     "I saw the Agean in your eyes
     where I had not before"
To remind me of what falling out of love feels like.
     Like inspiration.
          Like forgiveness.
               Like remembering the sweetness of summer fruit  
               in a riot of falling snow.

And the moment when sun breaks through a window
When dreams rise up to meet the day
and stubborn willful souls let truths sneak in.
She was right - it is the lark.
Still, this is how a life might feel:
like warm blankets and the smell of sycamore trees.
Or else, laughing at the darkened skies
and longing for a taste of freezer plums.
But I already know where that path winds.
Past lost friends,
sleepless nights,
silly gods rendered divine.
And the knowledge that I gave myself up 
to "dream of buttermilk biscuits" again.
This all goes to say 
that Frost was wrong about the best way out.
Sometimes,
it is clearly marked.
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