Do not be still, my heart,
Although you are becoming stone;
Soon, with dripping caverns you’ll be one
And towering walls of cliffs where swifts dart.
Dull ache of such sly change
Now tends to stop me in my tracks.
Late, I must not hurry, that’s a fact.
I’m having to face the truth: I’ve lost my range.
But don’t expect the end
Just yet. There’s plenty left to do.
Then, imagined baton, passed to you
By dreamers and thinkers and fighters will move again.
So onward, softly go.
Time will thread beads we stumble on
Still, connecting moments, smokefall, rain,
With lightly brushed touches, yet grounding all we know.
Our present will not make
Memories that will hold us fast.
They, no longer ours, are but past;
Our legacy of loss and hope, a gift to leave or take.
.
Stephen A. Linstead
www.viral-verses.com
www.nwdr.online
.