It is a subtle
Reining in,
Wispy threads
Looped through
And around
Conversation.
It moves in
The smallest of
Glacial increments,
The growth rings of a tree
Planted in youth,
Harvested in old age.
Like scratched dates
On old, yellowed photos,
We acknowledge its
Power,
Then stash it away
To be seen
Only at another
Passing.
Categories: Poetry