by Linda Conroy
Time moves, and stops, and moves again.
I see the gift each moment brings,
but there’s no keeping still,
no halting of the air that passes,
as I wander in the shadow of new deeds.
No holding back the stimulus of history,
of habits slipping subtle pointers,
nudging the direction of each consequence.
An instant passes now, nuanced, elusive
as time pulls on each new mask
and I stand ankle deep in thought.
Tomorrow isn’t promised
but it always comes.
Linda Conroy, a retired social worker, likes to write about the complexities of human nature and our connection to the natural world. She enjoys facilitating writing groups at Village Books in Bellingham, and her poems have appeared in various journals and anthologies. She is the author of two poetry collections, Ordinary Signs and Familiar Sky.