So many textile patterns and methods for bread,
diversions for babies and well depths,
cures for coughs and red flesh
were assured no preservation upon pages
in the age before printing,

in those jagged, stinking days
when the frowncreased faces
filled churches,
milled through markets
bringing their labor’s fruit
in muddy sackcloth,
returning with wool
to homes of stick and straw.

We innovate and yet
it’s still true that we die too soon.
And each child
makes their own way
in the world.