Now and Then

Now and then,
in the glare of some too bright light,
there is heaviness to the world,
or perhaps it is this flesh
that weighs so.

We do not own this moment,
or even our memories,
for all things change--
we are all changing,
and soon shall all be changed.

As the leaves blush with color,
falling like showers of tears,
they seem a dry and wrinkled
testament to all that was,
both green and young;

But what these eyes have seen
lies deep within this soul,
a music of memories
rising to the surface,

now and then.

Now and then,
backward, then fast forward;
Autumn leaves give way
to light Spring eves,
with buds on all the trees.

Now and then—
who can say when?
—wistful memories
of so many days gone by
will rightly sing this soul alight.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Procrastination

Breezes shift,
stirring leaves in spirals,
stirring music of memory,
conjuring seasons past,
reasons present,
and stretching toward
regions unexplored.

Memories are fragile,
like a house of cards,
built as much with forgetting
as remembering,
and yet, and yet,
the stirring and the falling,
well, that’s all right.

Sweeping up this pile,
a thoughtful procrastination,
not to relive, but to realize
all that has been,
all that has changed,
all that has been built
because of all that came before,
a moment to pause and reflect,
a moment to cherish.

Wistful in the windswept lane,
meanings present themselves not,
but experience is the unending song,
a music built on all such themes
as sift now through my soul
and tug my vision forward.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Turning

Leaves cascade to the ground,
a small music,
played by the wind;
it has begun,
this turning,
detaching
and falling
to freedoms
complicit with windy whims.

It is just the beginning
—we must be clear about that—
the start of a dialogue, a transition;
each leaf, as it turns,
glows, even as it fades
under the Autumn sun,
and, dying, dries,
and when it falls,
this is only a newer
hello,
the very latest one.

A slow dance,
this seasonal song,
is merely one of nature’s
many conversations;
the cold breath of Winter
may find an answer
in the winds of Spring,
or a balmy reply
on Summer’s sunny crest.

To turn,
to burn;
to prance
and dance,
unpinned
by the wind,
upended
(mayhap unintended)
and made free
to flee and be
and to become,
with all and some,
wholly changed material,
electrically ecstatic and
eclectically charged
for both the now and next.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Turnings

—for Emily

Trees,
She reaches out to the trees
all the year long;
between them there is a song.

And now, with the turning of the season,
her friends reach out to greet her.

The warm breeze
frees the leaves,
carrying them aloft
to her hands so soft.

Into a book they are pressed;
a future blessing, encountered blest,
still colorful in most cared for rest.