Memory

Pitched about me in the dark a quiet tent and a dark forest
Soulful melodies rising from the valley with the stars
Staring down through the elbows of dead branches
At little faces that stare back unsure of a new experience
They don't really know why they are lying on uneven ground
Far from home
Up on the side of a vibrating hill with the chants of crowds below
Tonight is born a memory fresh from wherever they come
It will live and die with our family
And live again each time we gather and recite the incantations
That raise the ghosts of childhood and simpler times

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Abraham Lincoln, Born Feb. 12, 1809”)