THE TIME CAPSULE. Norman Smith D.

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      The Time Capsule

      Exposed to the finer things of life

      Developed a passion for botany

      That consumed most of his time

      In his cellar, he grows a garden

      With orchids and exotic plants.

      There in command of his pen

      As the next passion of his life

      The one he holds as his dearest

      Frequently he spends an entire day

      Writes from morning until night.

      Never left his beloved sanctuary

      Of his garden and his favored pen

      One day at noon, he heard a blast

      He peeped through the window

      Only to notice that it was dark.

      Perhaps the blast of a thunderstorm

      Like the others this, too, will pass

      Engulfed by his writing he heeded not

      But continued until the morning

      Again, he peeped through his window.

      It seemed to have grown much darker

      With that, he laid aside his pen

      To ponder what it might have been

      Yes, the fear had reached him now

      Perplexed, he scratched his weary head.

      Once again but now in fear he peeped

      Through the dampened cellar window

      To notice the absent of life outside

      When many days had passed and gone

      He went upstairs and exited his home.

      There, the first to greet his eyes

      A book he wrote, the time capsule

      Speechless, he stood alone and scared

      Embarking upon the only obvious quest

      To see what has become of man.