Stowed deep
in an attic we found our new friend,
A thin board
with symbols and numbers and signs,
Once lost
and forgotten, discovered again,
To play
premonition and reading of minds.
A plane,
poised on knees as the planchard is placed,
Beneath
trembling fingers. It stutters and
creeps,
To spell out
a message, predicting our fates,
Betraying
all secrets long seasons would keep,
As, letter
by letter, before our wide eyes,
It whispers
a future we can't comprehend.
No prescient design is to be realized,
'till marked
is the moment just after it ends.
Thus,
children who gleefully giggle at time,
Mock only
themselves, who must one day reflect,
On parlor
games made of young lives undefined,
And oracle's
prophecy unto the deaf.
