I grow old, I grow old; my allusions taint with mold.
When I was young, the neighborhood fathers spoke of Iwo Jima and Normandy, FDR, and Nazis, words which meant little to me but were explosive with fecundity to them.
Now my explosive words, Segregation, Racism, Viet Nam, Kent State, Nixon, AIDS, mean little to the young although still fecund to me.
The husks of history are shucked and those inside scramble to plant themselves, only to be devoured by Time which makes again a new husk as the cycle proceeds.
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