Thurman P. Woodfork


Memories, fondly seen through the mists of time,
of untroubled youth, stretching off into
unending, unhurried weeks.
Summer had a thousand days then,
and a year was forever.
There was time then to watch a kaleidoscope of
clouds glide serenely across untroubled, cobalt skies.
To leap up and go running for the sheer
pleasure of running, no destination in mind.

Why do they send young men to war?
Is it really because of physical ability?
Or because of pliable minds that can be,
for a time, taught to obey without hesitation?
Not yet cynical enough to challenge assured authority,
naive, and trusting enough to say:
“I wish you had been my father,” without artifice.