Something I wrote for Poetry class that I suppose I'm proud of:


 


I’m Not Coming Down for Dinner



Clinging to the mast of a great oak galleon,
Thoughts wave and fray
Like battered flags.
Here, time is measured in sway.
Daylight drips through holes in leaves
Casting stars over everything like a tin lantern.
The rough limbs, their knobby hammock,
Knead premature worry from knotted young muscle.
The experienced hand of an elderly oak
Rocking its charge,
In a cradle of leaves and wind.