near the vast, sparkling lake,
deep in the woods,
my legs over
the old wall and sit
on the iron-cold stones. The wall
is longer than any living thing, and quieter
than anything that breathes, as we
stone by stone, each lagging weight
pulling the shoulders.
meant to sheet these green hills
and did, for a while.
But not anymore
And now the unmaking
has naturally begun.
and I see it all-the yearning
then the blunt and paunchy flight,
then the sweet, dark falling.
I grew up in the southeast part of the United States where as wild, running children we wove through the remaining woods, often discovering walls or embankments from farms and from wars. There wasn't much that could give us pause, but a decaying wall always would. There was something in it that said we would not last forever, though in the summer's freedom we felt we could run into eternity. For brief moments we wondered about the world beyond, our imaginations overcoming the heat of boredom as we touched on the magic of sensing that we were part of something larger. I see, now decades later, that the decay of age, of civilizations, and of habitats, slows us down enough to fathom the deep yearning and meaning in the distance between our dreams and reality, and between what we have done, and what we might yet do.
What meaning do you find in the evidence of ancient people, history's signs, or geological movements near your modern home?