Monday, August 27, 2012


endlessly sorting
through endless strands of thought,
thickly tangled as they are,
as they would be,
among convoluted perceptions
and all cognitive mechanisms
beyond my awareness.

Sorting endlessly,
--like hacking through jungle growth
with a blunt machete--
it can be easy to forget
how close you really are,
in the farthest away unseen,
and with the twilight
and light’s fatigue
drawing us all inward toward repose,
I feel you near again,
and remember:

These strands we’ve spun,
together, you and I,
and we shall weave them
on your gold and silver loom,
through my night of dreaming;
we shall weave them into dawn.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen