Memories

When I was a little boy,
we drove up a steep and winding road
into the deep green Smoky Mountains.
We stopped for a huge turtle as we rose above the heat,
and the largest bird I ever say swept across the sky.
Dad said it was a golden eagle.

They are dead now,
the eagle and the rabbits it missed,
the turtle and its mate, its children,
and my father.

We are closer to making life
in the laboratory than we were then.
We may set down aging's trigger.

Then, we will dispense with memories
and their meter and verse.
We will feel the dust that blows around
behind the back of god.
We will learn his unspeakable name,
and we will hoard his clay.