what you were going to do
you are not going to do
snapped branches, green
leaves blowing in wet wind
sirens and sky flashing
counting seconds on fingers
until thunder rumbles again
lights flicker, then gone, darkness
descends, no netflix or iphone
nature wins again
bunk beds stacked, thin mattresses
on steel spring decks, this cloistered
container, dorm room coffin where
20-year old boy-men play loud music
ska, reggae, rap, sometimes Phish
trapped inside institutional time
grab sleeping bag, late April night
up fir tree trail to quiet hilltop where
moths float over darken meadow
endless bedroom, alone for slumber
often the best response
is to give up
abandon all hope of
truly knowing how the
acorn becomes a tree
it just does, and
one day that barked
branched swaying nature
will topple, call it age
or disease, shifting roots
or unsteady ground, but
this too will just happen
and yet, we try so hard
to control all of life
when really, clinging
tightly is like pretending
a summer storm isn’t
made of rain, at some point
we all get wet
what are memories?
a skipping stone
under layers of
silt, bottom of
this primordial riverbed
water rushing over
unaware that time
has passed, soon
all is forgotten
Daniel W. Polk 