Memories

 Memories, fondly seen through the mists of time,

of untroubled youth, stretching off into

unending, unhurried weeks.

Summer had a thousand days then,

and a year was forever.

 There was time then to watch a kaleidoscope of

clouds glide serenely across untroubled, cobalt skies.

To leap up and go running for the sheer

pleasure of running, no destination in mind.

Why do they send young men to war?

Is it really because of physical ability?

Or because of pliable minds that can be,

for a time, taught to obey without hesitation?

Not yet cynical enough to challenge assured authority,

naive, and trusting enough to say:

“I wish you had been my father,” without artifice. 

©28 April 2002 

Thurman P. Woodfork

Webmaster: Thurman P. Woodfork

View My GuestbookSign My Guestbook