near the edge of a small town,
its name forgotten.
The bus, rattling softly,
raised a cloud of dust
as it faded into memory.
I remember the pasture
where we escaped the dust
raised by the passing wind.
In the middle of the pasture
sat the copse of trees,
the remains of an ancient forest.
We would go into the trees
and pick berries from vines,
wondering if we could eat them.
His was a strange face
in that strange country,
more open, more knowing.
But his name was lost to the years.
In those days
our souls were still growing,
our innocence showing
the faith that those moments
would not fade away.
