Late one night, my son couldn't sleep
and he came to my bed with a pleading look.
His eyes, like spotlights, shocked the night,
so I just reached down and grabbed a book.

With luck, it was Frost's "Collected Works"
that I picked off the top of a stack on the floor,
for poems can sometimes darken the night
and bring deeper dreams when sleep's a chore.

I purposely turned to the "Road Less Taken,"
figuring, heck, why not go for the best,
the one where Frost picks the less worn path,
and attributes to this all the rest.

From under the blanket came a voice, annoyed,
"Is that it?" he asked. "Is that the end?"
He was right, the story just suddenly stops,
and we never quite see around the bend.

So I realized I'd have to finish the tale
that Frost had begun in a yellow wood,
when, faced with two ways, he made a choice
that led him to places few understood.

When I finally finished, it was way too late.
The poor guy had stayed up as long as he could.
Then his dreams carried him, God knows where,
down paths that unwind under sleep's dark hood.

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
Contact Bill Schechter