Shades of Memory

Concrete interstate and docile sky
stream overpasses of rolling farms,
ranches rend to cookie-cutter homes,
fresh flour sidewalks, and sod.
Rubber retread slag off 18 wheels
flaps like flattened grackle wings;
as tedium on tread and round,
mile marks thrum a lullaby.

Through rearview mirror eyes,
luminous numbers, letters pass,
foresee a breath and verve.
Bypass stripes and asphalt end
where gravel, grass, and soil begin,
a late mist, post oak meadow,
rust and barbs on wire detour
pallid shades of memory.

Names and dates grip stone
or bronze, and with a paper,
charcoal rub, an exact account
of remnant moments;
recent colors, forms, and texture,
scent, taste, and sound are like
the edge of grounded clouds;
they succumb to heat and light.

And all the memories that remain,
rain and wind, ice and heat,
seasons, lime, and silt allure
impressions–husks, leaves, legs,
scales and skin, fins and shells–
an ancient sea, long dry,
rolls a limestone breaker,
quiet and still in time.