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patterns of ink

How fruitless to be ever thinking yet never embrace a thought... to have the power to believe and believe it's all for naught. I, too, have reckoned time and truth (content to wonder if not think) in metaphors and meaning and endless patterns of ink. Perhaps a few may find their way to the world where others live, sharing not just thoughts I've gathered but those I wish to give. Tom Kapanka

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

To My Brother Dave
Who Knew the Meaning of a Day

There was a time in childhood
(when school was out)
and each new day was an open book
and all we did is wake and breathe
and laugh and play
and write our stories there.
And in that time
we faced the days with little care
save those imposed by people looking down
who punctuated precious time
with church and chores and all such things
that marked the page before we wrote.
But I thank the God who gave us church
and the folks who gave us chores
that there were also days
that dawned deliciously blank
when we ventured out
with the courage to live the day in a tree
or to treasure hunt at sunrise on trash day
or retrieve refrigerator boxes from the bin
for forts and tanks and slipper slides…
or discover the world within 10-speed range
or play ball till the street lights came on
or C-A-R till mom’s silhouette
called from our distant porch.
We wrote our endless books of days...
till the last screen door slammed “the end”
unaware that in time
the same 24 hours would not fill a book,
not even a page...
but only a small numbered square
on a calendar.
.
January 24, 2004

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