A Rivulet Appreciated

"Where do memories go when we die?"
                                            -- from The Time of the Backroads

A small, sometimes stream,
breathing only after the heaviest storms,
wending its way through the forest--
where stubborn rock and ancient trees permit.

During the between times
--of sunlit days and star heavy nights--
Just the hint of this rivulet's passage.
Only slightly more than a memory.

Permanency neither achieved nor sought.

Like a hound's voice,
fading in the night.
Just to have been.
Gratitude for a simple instant.
Sated by a single moment.



Have a great weekend, folks.

Very Respectfully,

Joseph Gary Crance

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