Long ago that path became an object in the mirror
fading into the dust of the present experiences.
I look back with nostalgia at moments
I have built and pieced together from the
scenes I have witnessed, the people met
and the forgotten glorified sense of purpose.
What becomes of the road after the tires
have passed and the dust finally settles?
What becomes of the river
after the canyon walls give way?
What becomes of home
after the fire dies out?
Crashing waves keep my mind from resting
and I picture a small boat beyond the harbor.
Beneath the darkening skies it fights to stay
afloat, making each moment count.
What will be left in my wake when
the sun finally sets for the last time
and that tree I planted early in the spring
reaches its full height and lets go of each leaf?