The Seasand Inn waits, grey in resignation,
a moment caught, a feather on a wire fence,
a seabird standing on one leg, held still
while daisies grow in early March despite the cold.
As if there is impairment in the mainspring of the clock
that's left the future drifting, a force I can't step past,
an accident that time must swallow up.
Landmarks of the season's poise dissolve, sensing
underlying shifts, like water in a logjam flooding
to a current as it reaches sea. Finding empty space
where certainty once was, a pulse no longer adequate,
a work-shirt-and-suspenders usefulness that life
no longer represents. Another season wants to push,
but we don't need flowers, not just yet.
Linda Conroy is a retired social worker who uses poetry to portray the simplicity and complexity of behaviors that make us human. Her poems have recently appeared in Mezzo Cammin, Snapdragon, and the Fib Review. Her book, Ordinary Signs, will be published this year.