I follow a path into the woods.
The path gets narrower, overgrown.
The woods grow darker the father I go.
Then suddenly, the path splits.
One to the left. One to the right.
I look at the two paths and where
they each seem to be heading.
I think about where I am in the world
and calculate where each path
might eventually take me.
Then I look down each one
as far as I can see,
and then I make a choice.
Then I ask myself,
did I just make a choice?
Or did the choice just make me?
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Exit Strategy
Migratory birds
Discern a change
In the weather.
Their choices are driven
By mad reproduction
And the will to survive.
Their flight paths
Come predetermined,
Altered only by pollution.
Below the bare trees
We catch a breath
Of cold, fresh air.
We look for what
We are named for
And follow that path.
[Disposable Poem December 19, 2009]
Dr. Mike
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