Posterity - July 9 2025

 

Posterity

July 9 2025

I once used pen and paper.

The heft of the instrument,

my firm but tempered grip.

The smoothly rolling ink,

and the pleasing tug of friction

as it scrolls across the page.

On blank white sheets;

no confining lines,

no margins

to box me in.

Now, it’s pixels on a screen.

A tablet of glass,

and the clumsy touch of fingertips

smearing it with prints.

But paper burns

glass breaks

and who knows what or where

the “cloud” exists;

it could rain down any instant,

billions of words and pictures

swirling down the sewer grate.

Cheap acid paper

that won’t outlast a lifetime,

and cutting edge technology

evanescent as light.

Yet the buried shard

of a shattered pot

still bears its maker’s fingerprint,

a man who’s work survives

long past his death.

Human flesh

embossed in clay

and fired to a hard ceramic finish,

as if his hand

had reached out to mine

across thousands of years.

But still, no literary masterpiece

or papal encyclical,

no I have a dream

or Gettysburg Address.

Not even a shopping list.

Just a utilitarian pot

no one gave a thought to,

accidentally dropped

and thrown away.