Afternoon at the Lake

There is a moment,
in the depth of the afternoon,
when the summer sun is hottest,
that the soft light of peace gathers
to settle the dust of day.

The tread along the footpath
does not disturb the hum of hushed bees,
nor the meandering of dragonflies
from shore over the center of the lake,
coasting on any errant breeze.

While the blue green algae rests
in a shaded nook along the far shore,
the black crowned heron stands,
motionless, watchful,
awaiting the slightest stir
in the shallows that might signal lunch
—food to fuel night flight.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Head in the Clouds

Soft clouds walk the skies,
while I walk the beach
—we, in our own worlds,
walk together.

Sprinkles of rain,
tears of sorrow and joy,
sprays from salty waves,
these all commingle,
like thoughts.

The sun also joins
this conversation,
warming hands,
warming sands,
circulating all moist thoughts,
dropped to the thirsty earth,
back into the passing clouds.

Do I find my thoughts
among the clouds,
or in the spindrift?

Do ideas drift in and out
with the traveling mist,
in the passing storm cloud,
by way of fog and dew?

A complex conversation—
quiet, but more full of life
than my imaginings
can fathom.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Flights of Fancy

Gifted by the sun

for the full measure of this day,

the soft strokes of pollen-laden branches

along the side of this house

invite honeybee and hummingbird,
alike and united by a love of unfailing sweetness,

to rejoice in these dwindling days of summer.

Lifted from some glum

thought or worry or hurry,

the loft glows with sun-drenched particles

that, spiraling, seemingly long to find freedom

beyond the windowpane and sash,
much like muted, even urgent thoughts

tend to curl gracefully upward and outward.

Sifted, as through dun

and drear, merry and colorful thoughts contrast,

the toft now billowing with rising and sprightly intimations

of what suspended moment could hold—

if not being this brief encounter with bliss, then what?

—and one wonders why one doesn’t

surrender more frequently to such flights

—Which thought intrusion, of course, breaks the tender thread…

In the Blink of an Eye

In the space of
the blink of an eye,
an invisible river
of poetry overflows
its musical banks,
lapping lazily
at the far shores
of mind and
sensibility,
out of time
and place.

Merest suggestion
of that bounty
might be all
that is visible
to the naked eye,
in a seed, a shoot,
a bud, a root;
but perhaps,
if that is all,
it is enough
to assure
forward momentum
and a musical life.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen