Nearly a century ago We began our flight From the page to the air, The print yielding to waves That brought us voices and music And later moving images On a glass tube in the parlor. We could buy plastic discs as well And spin melodies out of them. Then the discs became A long brown ribbon Spooled up and encased, And its dulcet strains Or coarse chords Unspooled themselves In a box we could carry around. When the zeroes and ones came, It was a mere matter Of falling sands Before the letters and pictures and song Took flight themselves To land in our little rectangles And divert our eyes And ears And souls From the sacred presence of ourselves. When we truly choose, the moment is ours.