The Bones of Time

I stalk the creek bank

in search of signs of life

a boot print a hand print

the reflection of his eyes

in the clear trickles baptizing

the smooth flat stones of time

days nights months years

slide into the past gathering husks

of lives they have devoured

where the lives go I do not know

where the waters take us

I cannot say but the mossy banks

absorb my footfalls as dough

receives the baker’s imprint

the mark of good measure

the seal of rich grain reserved

only for the finest loaves

we will eat them on judgment day

when it comes I will be looking

for my father’s eyes even closed

they will draw me toward his hut

even blind they will lay me prone

on the creek bed awaiting the waters

washing over the long flat bones of time