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