I truly wish Robert Frost was still alive
so I could ask him where he found
that yellow wood of his poem.
The woods I know are mostly pine
in the Adirondacks, or mixed hardwoods
and when autumn arrives they greet it
in shades of green, red, orange
ochre and yes, some yellow,
but hardly enough to give
the forest that titular color.
And even in the woods I am aware
a road I am on may come to a V.
I could stop and stare and try
to figure out which of the two
forks was less traveled, but frankly
with well paved roads it would be
impossible to tell unless I stopped
off the side of the road
and counted cars for several hours
and that would defeat my
purpose for being there in the first place.