Paintings all Gone

West at the Francis school.

Half mile one black walnut stands.

Marks the sacred past.

No, house, mill, pond, or orchard.

Faulkner wrote-

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”

The paintings of youth are gone.

The war took some fight.

Time has taken the loves.

Writings spent, given away.

Eyes not so clear.

Mind hanging on, I think.

What I hear is not said.

Wonder about it all.

Maybe it is time I figure it.

Or do I want to know?

Oh, I see – we bring the past

to the future with living.

Strange - memories remembered-

they’re all the same age as before.

So, the past is not dead or past.

M. Mercer