Old Notebook

Storage tubs become time capsules in the basement.

It’s a fact. Stash your old notebooks and letters and comic books and broken crayons and come back 10 years later to reexamine the fragments you just couldn’t throw out.

Today I rediscovered a journal my wife gave me for my birthday in 2002. The inscription: “To carry on the tradition — and to keep your writing spirit alive and well.”

Well, the tradition was short-lived. I made one entry — a poem. I can’t recall writing any since. So, here’s a poem I wrote 10 years ago, warts and all.

 

Where are you taking me?

I can’t see you.

I can’t hear you.

But I watch the woods and I think I

glimpsed you once.

You were the wind, evidenced only by the

movement of the trees.

I was a hawk, hungry and waiting

patiently for any sign of movement.

You shook me awake and off the treetop

I leapt, my eyes fixed on a target

and I never saw the highway or the

windshield I met just before landing my target.

You moved me again.

Where are you taking me?

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