Pulsating jet engines
Begin to fade from memory
Jaws begin to unclench
Hasty pace, temporarily forgotten
As a bit of the past
Creeps back into conscious memory.
Winding from “Under the Hill”
To the Cumberland Plateau,
I traverse a this tiny sliver
Connecting the present
To the past.
If I had a son
Who had reached
That certain age,
We’d share that winding road
And I’d tell him
Some of the things he should know.
That a weed
May be a wildflower
Winding may be better
Than straight,
That nature heals all wounds
If given a chance.
I’d tell him about the mistakes
I have made
And the reasons why,
As best I know,
Hoping he will be wiser
As through life he’ll go.
Point out God’s gentle creations
Seen along the way,
That’s not a bush
But rather a deer,
Maybe he would understand
It’s true of humans too,
We often see what we look for
Even thought it may not
Be real.
Show him the shyest creatures
Will appear when left alone;
That man can exist with nature
For nature was not made
Just for man.
See how beautiful wisteria
So lovingly holds that tree,
Covering its branches with profusion
Of purple for all to see.
Perhaps one day
He’ll understand
That if we love, we do not squeeze
And that beauty we often see
May not be what it seems
For the tree is slowly being
Squeezed to death by the vines.
It would be a perfect time
To stop at an Indian mound
And tell him about his heritage,
That he, like me,
Should be so proud.
If I had a son,
We’d walk together
Down that deep cut road
Where thousands have passed before;
It was they, not us
Who made this nation great.
Are we doing half as much?