One hundred years like one have wiped away The former present from this ancient past. There’s haunting mixed with fragile peace today That spreads with some wild wind and travels fast. We wonder how long all of this will last. May somewhere, fresh with time, there be a place Where I can pause concern to kiss your face.
Linked to dVerse Poetics where Bjorn is hosting with the theme of “plague, pestilence, and pandemic”.
On Thursday I will feature poems with seven lines. They don’t have to be Chaucerian stanzas as this one is. The only constraint will be that the poems have seven lines.