Josh Mandilk

I know the way
the windswept hollow feels

after years spent holding open
a space within the oak. Hushed

as a distant storm rolls
its thunderous dice

at someone else’s feet, as lightning
lights the vulnerable stones,

as if it made a difference
to the waves. I live

in this brief and quiet light,
this echo of nature’s greatness,

and I ask the same question
as the dry and rotting cavern.

When did this space become
something else entirely?

When did it begin,
and when did it begin

to mean nothing
but the chill filling the shade,

the scent of so many unseen branches,
of landlocked leaves that spend their short lives

dreaming
of the sea?