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I would've written this one just this way, I feel so reminiscent all the time! And I am still so young . . .

Archaeology
The older we get, the deeper we dig into our childhoods,Hoping to find the radiant cellThat washed us, and caused our lives to glow in the dark like clock handsEndlessly turning toward the future,Tomorrow, day after tomorrow, the day after that, all golden, all in good time
Hiwassee Dam, North Carolina. Still 1942,Still campfire smoke in both our eyes, my brother and IGaze far out at the lake in sunflame,Expecting our father at any moment, like Charon, to appearBack out of the light from the other side, low-gunwaled and loaded down with our slippery dreams.
Other incidents flicker like foxfire in the blackIsolate distance of memory, cross-eyed, horizon-haired.Which one, is it one, is it anyone that cleans us, clears us,That relimbs our lives to a shining
One month without rain, two months, third month of the new year,Afternoon breeze-rustle dry in the dry needles of hemlock and pine.I can't get down deep enough.Sunlight flaps its enormous wings and lifts off from the backyard,The wind rattles its raw throat, but I still can't go deep enough.
Charles WrightScar TissueFarrar, Straus and Giroux