by Dianne Dibb Forbis


Do you ever long
for long ago,
settings collaged
from hearsay glow?
Those times when wishing
made no sound,
when there were meadows enough
to go around?


We’ve been told not to procrastinate:
our senses will disintegrate;
our joints we will not lubricate
doing only what we like.
But as I sit and meditate,
my muscles won’t cooperate;
working conditions they clearly hate.
I think they’ve gone on strike!