The Road Taken

Asphalt ribbons twist and coil, through emerald Vermont’s embrace,

Ripton slumbers, sun-kissed foil, on a river full of quartz embrace.

General Store, a drowsy hum, whispers tales of Frost and yore,

Turnstone skitters, feathers glum, by the cabin’s weathered door.

Through birch and beech, the shadows play, secrets rustle in the leaves,

Sunlight spills, a fleeting ray, on moss-grown stones, where silence weaves.

Then, like a burst of summer bloom, Yellow buildings shimmer bright,

Bread Loaf’s crown, dispelling gloom, a beacon in the day’s last light.

Asphalt yields to emerald lawn, dreams take flight on whispered words,

Stories wait, like seeds just sown, on shelves where spines like feathers stir.

Here, where Frost once trod the trail, pen and heart in perfect stride,

Writers gather, spirits pale, seeking truth where shadows hide.

So roll the windows, let the breeze sing tales of ink and pine-sweet air,

Curvy road, a whispering hinge, to where imaginations fare.

Yellow walls hold ancient lore, echoes of a thousand dreams,

Ink-stained hands reach once more, to claim the worlds unseen, it seems.

And nestled close, the weathered Barn, with moonlight painting silver streaks,

Holds echoes of Frost’s fire-lit charm, a stage for shadows’ playful speaks.

No gaslight glow, but starlight weaves its magic through the open beams,

A canvas bold for dreams that leave imprints in whispered, vibrant streams.

Drive on, reader, evermore, to where Bread Loaf’s river gleams,

Let pages turn, let knowledge soar, in pages woven from dreams.