the garden of branching paths

the metaphoric woods of Robert Frost
evoke the start of Dante's Comedy
each path not taken is a cosmos lost
potential worlds that never come to be
a chance encounter on a beach, or plane
might introduce a nemesis, or wife
predicting ev'ry consequence is vain
there is no certain foresight in this life
two paths diverge, and I can't take the twain
unlike a photon, I'm constrained to choose
decisions now, in hopes of future gain
inseparable from the chance to lose
that darkness in the woods Frost dimly saw
for Heisenberg, achieved the force of law