The Well-Worn Road

I chose the other path, the well-worn road,
And found myself alone. No one had crossed
This way lately and, frankly, I was lost,
Then travelled forward. I quick-marched, I strode,
I ran, I sauntered, hesitated, rode,
Picked my way past the early morning frost
Some demiurge had cavalierly tossed
Into its seams: fine lines, some sort of code.

It wasn't Autumn, nor was this the Fall.
I gave up one brief moment's sullen pride,
And chose, there, where the road chose to divide.
If I had not heard true love's siren call,
I might have gone the other way, that small,
Less-travelled path everyone else had tried.