Poetry

by Lynnette Waite


A Passing Sad

A passing sad—it only
tip-toed across my heart.
Should I take a plaster cast
and seek the culprit?
No need for that
actually—no time;
For like walking on spongy ground
the footprints spring back,
And only those who saw them
would ever believe
they had been there.

[photo] Photo by Royce Bair