Poem by R.M. Dolin
Old Oaks
Old oaks yearn to
yield more freely to the Santa Anna’s.
Dust covers tracks as rapidly
as they’re laid
in the same way the past
cascades over a collision of
words left unspoken
and moments allowed to pass.
Easy memories are seldom retained,
which is why
we grow hard in
the throes of time.
What some call luck,
others call fate.
Others still say
it’s the curse of our ancestors.
Badness comes in bunches,
or so at least it seems.
Love is
a deep understanding that
where you are
is where you’re supposed to be.
Which is why
the question remains,
as it always has,
how are we
supposed to know
here is where
we’re supposed to be?
R. M. Dolin, 2015
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