Driftless

 

I wander the Wisconsin Driftless Area,

a land unscathed from

the advance of glaciers,

but not the advance of time.

 

The Mississippi flows inevitably downhill,

carving the continent below buff-colored bluffs.

As I walk this path I leave only footprints,

an ephemeral trace of my existence.

 

Maple leaves drift to the ground,

no strength left to hang on to their limbs

under blustery winds from the north.

Scarlet snowflakes of autumn.

 

As new mountains rise from the ashes of old,

these fragile limestone bluffs

will erode and be forgotten,

save for the genealogical record of the earth.

 

As the last rays of golden light reflect across this river of glass,

I know from whence it came, and I know its final fate.

But I sit and watch the river drift below me,

for its time is now.