How many remember so much?
I’ve read for some it’s a burden,
That not a thought or word or touch
Is lost, faded or uncertain.
All comes back clear and unbidden,
A constant stream of images
It is prayed might remain hidden.
No, such a past never ages.
The old yew tree in my back yard,
Subsiding, has dug a sinkhole,
Its roots drawing earth to branches.
I fill it in with sand —it’s hard—
I don’t want to choke the tree’s bole
Just to slow small avalanches.
