Pop

A greyed and torn remnant,
from a page on a shelf.
Years, overlooked...
sitting, waiting by self.

A key therin lies
to a fortune untold.
A memory of a time,
when it wasn't so old.

The knowledge in that page,
while tattered and torn,
reminds one of places,
of times, and of lore.

I think I shall leave it
having read it before,
for disturbing fragile surface
might render it torn.

I'll remember a time,
when the hand that wrote it,
would tussle my hair,
and for luck he would stroke it.

He taught me a lot
that father of mine.
This page on this shelf,
I'll leave leave for a time.

One day comes another,
stumbling along -
looking for answers,
but in life, finding none.

Perhaps that old page
will call out his name,
and he'll be enlightened
ever changed, not the same.

For now it is history
and gathering dust-
but one day will be opened,
and as reading, a must.

Like the fathers before it,
it waits for that time,
when its words will bring meaning
for the lad, like new wine.