Lost Art of the Written Word: A Nostalgic Ode

In a world spun from threads of light and air,

A parchment comes, a whisper from the past,

From hands that dared to pen what hearts declare,

A tangible embrace, in inks amassed.

 

At forty springs, amidst life's furrowed path,

I stand in awe as golden hues unfold,

The graphite’s trace, a testament of faith,

A testament to bonds that never mold.

 

Yet as I stand, a beacon in the time,

A sorrow blooms amidst the budding joy,

For newer seeds sprout in a digital clime,

Where fleeting snaps replace the real alloy.

 

Oh, youth of now, in pixelated dreams,

Unaware of parchment’s golden seams,

Will they know the joy, the sweet delight,

Of hand-penned words in morning light?

 

Yet hope remains, a flicker in the dusk,

For treasures oft are found in hidden nooks,

And maybe, just maybe, a curious tusk,

Will yearn for more than what is found in books.

 

To hold a piece of someone's distant day,

To feel their spirit dance in written swirls,

An art that, with intention, might not sway,

A beacon lit for future boys and girls.

 

May time yet forge a bridge between these worlds,

Where fingertips touch more than glassy screens,

Where once again, in loops and swirls unfurled,

The ink reveals what true connection means.

 

© Susie Stiles-Wolf