As I survey my childhood memory,What really figures most prominently — The foremost totem I can pluck from the muck of my mind — Is not a picture book, nor a blanket, nor a big wheel.No, my recollections of kindergarten are reigned over byYou wee, whey-like white wands,Which wait in wide boxes without whining.You pasty, pygmy Pillars of Creation, whatProffered unto me a pass to play ElohimAnd reshape the formless landscape ofThe blackboard and the brick wall and the sidewalkIn mine own image.
Recall that the fingers of the Lord
Warned not of Babylon’s doom with plague or swordBut with the wonder of the writing on the wall — So too were You a tool for my knowledge accumulation.By what means did Mrs. CulbersonInscribe her springy cursive in the ebony void of the board?(“Behold this writing style you will surely use in the future, ye children, and despair!”)With what wizardry did Mr. RankinCarve the eternal laws of PEMDAS onto the broad black steleFrom which of our mathematical knowledge was derived?‘Twas You, Crayola. YourScribblings were mouthwatering manna made for my mental matter.
For all You’ve done for me, I still feel shame —
Though perhaps I shouldn’t; we’re all to blame — The way we would cast You off,Abandon You for a virgin pieceEven after You’d sacrificed all for us.Even after You’d allowed us to bear Your being on the altar ofThe blackboard and the brick wall and the sidewalkAnd let us to scrape it into nonexistenceFor our own amusement and gain.Tell me, how could I not tremble at the thoughtOf befalling a fate such as Yours,And being cursed to spend all eternity in Purgatory,As but a stub of my former self — Merely mostly dead,Never to beFully incomplete? This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.
