Linda Jordan Hymrod
. . .and the heart recalls each yesterday,
Fleeting moments. A fond embrace. .a lingering glance.
Tears of sorrow--smiles of joy.
Echoes of past reflections captured in photograph albums.
Faded writings on tender paper made fragile and yellow by time. Time.
That which is constant. That which is silent. That which
hovers over the days of men. Dance we to its music--a presence
not unlike the rose, whose fragrant bouquet will pass all too soon. . . .and then the h