Poem 48

I wrote this poem off of an exercise suggested in a book on writing poetry. The idea is to take a quote from a pre-Socratic Greek philosopher and write a poem that sort of goes against the "Show, don't tell" admonition. I came up with this fictional piece, which I'm actually satisfied enough to post. I looked at the quote in a way that is sure to be out of context and almost certainly wrong in its interpretation but which made sense to me in a way.

I have no idea where this hike is actually taking place.

Spring Break with My Daughter

“Old men were once young, but it is uncertain if young men will reach old age.” –Democritus

“The banks of the stream
keep it to one channel,
but with time, the river remodels
its course. Look at the walls
of this canyon; you see?”
my daughter announces
as if it’s been 30 years since
Geology, and for me, it has.
I can relate if the rock wonders
where the time has gone.

It must seem big to her,
the scads of years
to pry apart rock and leave
enough space for slow water
along the trail
and us along that, walking,
two hikers in jeans, boots,
the sweat of people who
spend the week indoors.

Jenn stops to swig water
and I look up through
sunglasses at the
sandstone and grass running
up from our low crease.
“Imagine how many years
it took to make this.”
“Yeah, when I was your age,
this was about three feet deep.”
She smiles, the dad-is-funny
grin: we’re getting along.

When she drove home
instead of to the beach
two days ago, I thought,
What can I pass to her
on a Spring break better
spent with friends?
And I thought of mine
back then laying on a beach,
trying to get laid,
mostly trying. Hard
to say it, but that’s what
I think college is for.

Monica made up the guest bed.
I thawed steaks and spent a vacation day.
Last year Jenn came home
and we had it all planned,
but that wasn’t sophomore year
when a kid is supposed to be
sleeping till noon
on a seven-beer hangover.
I’d like to ask her what’s wrong
and why she’s making good choices.

She clicks the cap back
on her water and claps her hands,
“Let’s keep going.” She starts.
My knees are reminding me
of the already three-mile return.
We stomp on down the trail,
another force tearing the canyon deeper
into earth, aging at every step,
all of us wanting to say,
I’m not sure how I got like
this, but I’ll tell you the story.