Passage...

The air does not shudder

And nor does the grass

In spite of the haste

With which you pass

Surely, there ought to be

A kind of farewell

Like a soft melody

Or a tolling bell

But fluid, you slip

Or, do you climb?

An ethereal drip

Of passing Time

You do not wave

Or whisper good-by

But you become yesterday

As you slip to the sky

© Janet Martin