Here are two very rough drafts of companion poems I found today on a rambling walk outside the library

Poem #1:

I picked up a leaf off the ground

that was too real to be real.

It was the color of first semester freshman year dramatic literature love, the shape of the wishing star you found when gods abandoned you, and the Goldilocks size of leaves—smaller than capitalism, bigger than the expected, cramped answer to the question, “What do you want to be?”

Poem #2:

If some nosy jackass

asks you what you want to do

with your life, tell them:

You plan on surfing the autumn winds in a maple seed helicopter, hibernating all winter like an Alaskan grizzle who gorged on Pacific salmon and boysenberries, make love all spring like a dragonfly destined to shortly die, and gently sway in the summer breeze like a blade of coastal grass in August.

Then they will leave you alone and never ask anything if you ever again.