5/15/11

Upon a truck somewhere that spans a road from West to East,

A carefully collected group of artifacts is sent,

The fragments of a man's existance, numbered piece by piece,

Each one bestowed with great import, to help us not forget,

A feeling, a remembrance, or an odd envisioned scene,

Invoked by these few talismans, on which we count so much,

To take past moments, now become but something like a dream,

And bring them once again to life though objects that they touched.

I only hope someday the things I owned will be as this,

Effects both kept and cherished for the comfort which they hold,

A wooden chair, a lamp, a hanging picture, or a dish,

Which tell how good a life I lived by how much they console.