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:

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