Without Dark, Would We See the Light?
I think of lilies, flowers of the earth,
still fragrant, winsome,
each sight a bead in the chain of my belief,
though often times I toil
and spin and ponder, prune,
prevaricate in want and greed and guilt.
Author / Linda Conroy
One Morning
In rough gravel
beneath a maple drape
beside a chance thistle
between the fallen
cones of pine
an orange poppy
its stem so fragile
barely wider
than a thread
drowses, sways.
Everyday Work
We’re spooled to unwind, like fishing line,
eager for a bite, the whirl of thread on spindle
rattling, measuring the length of life.
We race past the market’s crowd,
delighted in its hustle, though what we need
is a calm moment, to find a better stance.
Quiet
In half-shade that signifies the close
of night I see the faded quarter- moon
poised mute above the faint skyline.
A silence of birds sits in winter pine.
The stillness of the dawn is tangible.
I sense her at a distance with no color yet,