Memories. Why are memories of scenes of childhood so filled with detail, the faces so clear, the sounds so sharp, the colors so bright? We remember our schoolmates, our first job, our first love. Are we the only ones? Does a horse have memory of being young and frisky, of mom watching as he raced over the dew fresh grass of the open field, the morning sun turning the meadow into a brilliant colt-owned fairyland? I like to think so, for memory is the basis of all life. Even a meal worn can learn, given time and opportunity. Without memory there would be no animal life, at least not as we know it, hardwired perhaps, like the insects. Does a cricket remember that summer night he heard the song of his lover for the first time? I like to think so.    

 

 

When I an architect began

Design was with a pencil

And then we wrote the specs by hand

And typed them on a stencil

Today’s designs are CAD arranged

The desktop does the specs

The only thing that hasn’t changed

Is what will happen next

In fifty years or more or less

Will people still be using

The things we think so marvelous

But then will seem amusing?

Old memories are now awoke

Like watching the sky writers

High in the sky write ads with smoke

With flimsy World War fighters

Now ads come at you every way

The mind of man can get up

They pound at you throughout the day

Without a cease or let up

I’m glad I lived just when I did

And saw so many marvels

And spent my time a carefree kid

Not knowing we were larvals