Which Way Do I Go?

A wooded path is like a river weaving it natural course downstream it's like a dream winding and turning, twisting from high to low. It's as if your heart were on a swing bridge when the evening light dims in its glow, and every fork in the road is a pause for some hidden dilemma? Which way do I go? If only I could turn back and pretend I'm still on track, pretend that forward movement doesn't matter. Pretend that these old pastures are still good fodder and staying-put is well much, much better.