I yearn for the river moving over stone,
white splash of ripples,
clack of pebbles as they roll.
I long for mountain peaks, a time away
from stubbornness of town, from bustle of the market place
where each person must be heard if we want peace.
I crave quiet, knowing that what’s here is real.
No subterfuge suggested by the wolf,
no pretense by the watchful owl.
The lure of forest clings.
Well-being of the trees, roots deep in solid earth
brings promises of tender dream.
—
Linda Conroy, a retired social worker, enjoys writing about the complexities of human nature and our connection to the natural world. Her poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies. She is the author of the poetry collections, Ordinary Signs and Familiar Sky.
