After the Sermon

The slow drawl of propeller
Engine over the canyon
On a Sunday afternoon,

Like a memory trawling
For other memories
Of other engines over

Other days decades ago—
Every newest noise becomes
Nostalgic in a lifetime,

And maybe that’s part of it,
Why bodies go on living,
So that they can reach the point

Where any old memory,
By mere virtue of being
Memory, their own, and old,

Grows piquantly savory.
Sensing a long existence
Depends on haunting distance,

The fade of that mellow groan
Receding from the canyon
Like the snore of God’s napping.