There was a time when I was regularly writing poetry and taking part in a poetry group on a weekly basis. This was right before round 2 of grad school. I came across a draft of a poem that still now appears to me to have potential, though it's unfinished.
Poem from 2003:
There is a last time that something is done casually,
just before the great leaf drop of assumptions.
In a dazzling instance we are too informed,
know too much, and at such a moment we
treasure the knowledge, unaware of what
we’ve just lost by the knowing.
Clothes hit the floor with a thunk,
and we are bare and awkward,
and the last time we did that casually
recedes into an ever further distance. If
we are one of the lucky ones, lucky to grow,
trailing behind us, a lazy vine of time.