Our Words

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
When I look at the words
Just yours and mine
I see them as artifacts
Written out of time.

That extra 'e',
That trailing 'y'
A compound here and there
The dipthongs are
The glides have been
Written perhaps by Chaucer's hand?

My eyes must lie
Or just my mind
Daydreaming while I read?
But some day
Yet soon will come
When they look upon these words.
Perhaps we'll lose
A letter here
And gain a letter there;

They struggle to read
As though our words
We written by foreign hand?
But we can only hope
That by and by
Our words are never lost;
Or should we say
That we pray
That keeping them is worth the cost.

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