By Patrick J. Wood
Publisher
Dear Reader,
Yesterday my grandson Michael Francis was born. Coincidentally or maybe not, Francis was the name of my father. His birth and my father’s death got me thinking…see below.
Echoes
What are we to bequeath of our lives
Our graves will be overgrown with brush
Later generations will trample over them
The memories won’t remain ere long
Can we truly savor a day
Do we really capture its essence
Are we assembling a poetry of interrelated goodness
Do steel and stone monuments weather longer
We leave behind our children and theirs
We bestow an unappreciated accumulation
Does it matter to be remembered
Or does it matter that we just were here
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