Futility

Winter: low,
cold,
in arms,
breathless,
yet possible.

Winter lies low:
close, cold
within the arms
of breathlessness
and possibility.

Winter night lies low,
closed and cold,
holding, within desperate arms
of drawn silence, any breath
that could be misconstrued as song.

Winter night lies low, hushed,
closed off in bitter cold,
holding possibility at bay,
for as long as any breath can be held
away from inevitable amplification
into the possibility of Spring sun and of song.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Metamorphosis

Fuelled by the hum of infinity,
mind engages, body joins in,
opening heart out into soul,
then becoming song.

Strands of resonance,
spinning threads of light,
weave in sonic tapestry
a chamber for dreaming.

Reflecting from within to withinner,
willingly caught innerly within,
dream-time gives birth to knowing that
life begins as song and the song never ends.

Emerging from there into the music,
from being there into Being here,
onward to newness, next and beyond,
the becoming song exercises its wings.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen