By the aging stately oaks, with their crowns of hirsute branches, we stand. We stand beside these towering canopies, raking and burning the dry leaves which have fallen to the ground, covering the landscape like a bister afghan. The charred debris being borne away into the smoky air, aloof until the sprightly embers pursue. Searing **** swirling round and round before cooling rapidly, then dying without a sound.

In the distance, I see the local church bells swinging from their axles -the clappers striking the sound rims-then tolling in full tones for the listeners within a one-mile range. The ripe fruits in our garden tree weigh down the boughs like diadems, and  within inches of our outstretched arms, they hang.

And the children play tag, romping in the yard yelling, "You're it!" and, "Not it!", all thru the evening hours. A smile across your lovely face lets me know you are enjoying the remaining day, and I take more pleasure in that than I can aptly say. Then we take a break from our toil and sit in the hale shade of the gallant trees, you drinking sweet tea with me, as we agree, we should avail days to these rare autumn liberties.

.
     ...is a fragile little thing,
     that most tend to overlook.
     Small word with a **** big meaning.
     Some may uphold it; some may
     conveniently have it mistook...

Trust...
     ...is in the grasp of the unknown
     stranger,
     that helps you up when you've fallen
     down.

Trust...
     ...is the pact between you and the cab
     driver,
     as he takes you to where you want to
     be, across town.

Trust...
     ...the bough on which your swing does
     sit.
     Pray that it doesn't break as you enjoy
     its joyous ride.

Trust...
     ...your cook, hoping in your food he
     doesn't spit...
     Especially when you've provided
     feedback that scuffed his pride.

Trust...
     ...lays exposed when the keys to your
     house you surrender,
     to your neighbour who'd keep an eye
     while you're away on a retreat.

Trust...
     ...exists latent in the open palm of your
     caregiver...
     As a child you'd take his hand so he'd
     ferry you safely across the street.

Trust...
     ...is the unspoken oath that I had thought
     we both held sacred...
     When I spilled the contents, my heart
     couldn't bear much longer.

Trust...
     ...meant nothing when you took it all for
     granted,
     when you weakened and succumbed...
     ...and then shared with another...

Organized teaching limits some learning
Blinds us from truth, the shiny is alluring.

Organized media sometimes mislead information
Their freedom has boundaries of confrontation.

Organized politics always have hidden agenda
        - A self-absorb Propaganda.

The Vault stands resolute
Against acidic Time.
It must have much to say.
There is much it must have seen.

It's steady, stony gaze
Is all that now remains
To stand guard over nothing;
Duty-bound to stay.

What resides within?
It is aching to become known.
What resides within?

We rush the beckoning gate,
We push and pry and pull.
Today is a first for the Vault:
For the first time it loses a fight.

The darkness confronts us,
Accusing and severe.
Apprehension crawls up our spines:
What has been hidden here?

What resides within?
It is aching to be known.
What resides within?

We set foot inside,
Our steps unnervingly loud.
The cold sun nips our heels.
The darkness caresses our brow.

What's that ahead?
I believe it is light.
The faintest of glimmers:
Thin golden thread.

What resides within?
It is aching to be known.
What resides within?

With the greatest of caution
We open this new door.
Beyond is a strange old creature,
Back to the wall, sitting on the floor.

His flesh is pale and creased,
But his eyes are anything but idle.
"What is this place?", we ask.
His answer comes with a smile:

"This is Man's Vault.
It is a reservoir of what we were
Long before the missiles or the disease
Or by both we all were burned".

"Who are you?"

"I am the Curator, the Chronicler.
This place is of my own work.
I've spent day and night here,
Building it with record, picture and book."

"What may we do with it?"

"That is for you alone to decide.
The collection must pass to new hands.
My purpose here has been served.
In this present realm I will not much longer bide."

On concluding his final, heavy quatrain,
He breathed his long life out.
And the liveliness from out his eyes did drain

For several minutes, we stood in silence.
As a weight pulled down on our hearts.
A race had died before our eyes,
And left to us its inheritance.