An Old Prose
I am four weeks on site, and feel like, “ An Old Prose” now.
I am navigating better, and have learned to use at least the basic functions, which for me is a major accomplishment, as I abhor technology. I am a book guy at heart, and still love the hefty-solidness of a good book on an evening porch, the book with its rich smell of leather, and aged paper.
But I must admit, with theProse site, I am again Summer’s child, running along a darkened tree-line, jar in hand, snatching as the flies light, this one gold, that one violet. I set the jar on my stand at bedtime, watching it wink and glow its light against ignorance, its stories and rhymes a sing-song lullaby. I sleep peacefully, knowing that our youth is served, and not turned entirely to gaming, and violence.
And my room grows perpetually brighter, as every night I find new flies, with new colors, and brighter bulbs. And when I remove the lid to add the new, the old flies stay, happy that their lights are seen, and confidant that I will be a good steward to the causes they shine upon.
Even as I sleep, lights are winking, the brightness building, my dreams sweet in their safe assuring glow.
I can finally see “the light” at the end of the fiber-optic tunnel, and it is not a train, it is a glow-fly, a glow-fly illuminating the most human of emotions. I now take heart in being an “Old Prose” in a New World.
I awake with the lights tinkling at my bedside, and I reach for the tablet to catch you.
I thank you for writing, and I thank you for reading.