Born a dying the sights and
Sounds of our youth. They
Seem but the tell tale tats
Of another former age.  Yet
they are like the night of the
Falling stars or when the dark
Sound went phosphorescent
With every movement of its
Waters are ever remembered.
Penny candy dreams of old
Yesterdays, old even then like
The Memorial Day Parades
The rifle shots of the village
Green.  Left over they seem
When first seen never new
Almost gone, the very few.