When Virgil returned our Dante to solid ground
and hid Creation's panoramic view,
the poet, he shook himself off and turned around.
His native Florence emerged to dispel the True.
Thirty-five years since the bard had emerged.
His life's second half would be consolidation.
But alas, no claim yet what this second half urged,
beyond the pales of the hundredth station
at which he'd taken his leave of his antique friend.
It's often much the same with the rest of us here.
We reach some shadowy, Frostian bend
and are nonplussed to ascertain which way to wend.
We make up our minds and drop our bags somewhere near,
then pin our tired eyes to the latest scroll
and duck the punches with which we are loathe to roll.