Sound Memories

The sound of crunching on a gravel path

Reminds me of my childhood treks.

Our thoughts of complaint as we marched

Wisely keeping verbal protests in check.

I see us on the rocky desert’s trails

Apprehensive about snakes, hands on hot boulders,

Squeezing through narrow openings, single file

Diving into the oasis, diving in from Dad’s shoulders.

The dusty mountain dirt, white shoes turning brown,

Crackling twigs and great logs to traverse

The scent of pine clearing our noses

From the peak, a new look at the universe.

My favorite walk, south down the beach for miles

Across the river as it swept towards the sea

Across the rocks barefoot if the tide was right

A reminder of our home, where I long to be.