This is the road long not taken,

And not even wind has disturbed

The one lane of weeds and dust

That once must have had a name

Where a mailbox sits on pine post,

Still waiting with its red flag raised.

Here in the country addresses too

Grow old and die, stones and shade

Trees rising again in the pastures

And fields to mark their passing.

If anyone mourns or remembers

It is in passing too, at a distance,

And from here gnarled fence posts

Lean and frame little landscapes

Of mostly ragweed and purple vetch,

And one view of yellow primroses

Poised on post-stems, vines of wire,

The sharp barbs of rusty thorns.