what will last?

the golden glow of memory

memories hover over and around spots I’ve known well,

fragments of feelings can be like

a golden glow that still encircles

where I fished for crawdads,

where I built dams of sand 

so that my boats could have a friendly home,

in my life the creek has changed:

trees and banks go away

and the channels subtly shift,

I cannot really feel the change

that geology and evolution use 

to shape tomorrow from today,

at best I get hints of small changes

that I can start to image over eons,

here in the Smokies I can swat a pesky fly with ease,

whereas back where people are abundant

natural selection has worked wariness into the fly,

our decisions, and the law, for now allow the cabin 

my parents made to serve as portal into nature,

and my mother’s dream still lives, though she is gone,

what do we build with our lives that will last at all?

how much golden glow of memory can we leave behind?

by Henry H. Walker

June 25, ’14