When There Is No Impression Left of Me

I mean no impression.  Not a blade of grass bent under my boot.  Not a plastic proxy brush tossed in my bathroom waste basket.  Not a juvenile bald eagle now high in a tree, gorging himself on a dead bass that I swung over my head, then flipped head over tail to him out of an ancient canoe, into the waters of the Big Lake in Maine.  

Not a ripple On Golden Pond.  Nor a single survivor, however broadly that may be defined, who has not likewise crossed the horizon of memory.

But will there be judgment still echoing in the void?

When they said "Repent! Repent!," I wonder what they meant.

When they said "Repent! Repent!," I wonder what they meant?