A Quiet Revolution

At sometime clipped,

by studied hand or wind,
winter-shorn branches,
in defiance of rain and cold,
stick out shoots and buds
like saucy little red tongues.

A green fringe soon arrives,
to dawn and then to crest,
with a hint of passion’s hue
blushing from unfurling tips;
daily, yet unhurried, arrives
some new, impish posture.

From ever entwining green,
flower buds arise, carelessly
insinuating most contrary beauty,
here,—within our noise and need—
even here,—from our crumbling rubble—
staging a popular dissent.

Wherever a war-mad world
breeds destruction and death,
a counter-insurgency rises,
peacefully demonstrating,
affirming life’s supremacy,
in brightly arrayed revolt.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Arose In Winter

i.m.  Pauline D. (1922-2011)

She had filled every role,
from child to grandmother,
from partner to friend,
from advocate
to the glue,
which holds people together,
if they will allow it to do so.

People mattered most:
family,
community,
the joys of fellowship;
the affirmation,
and meaning, of life—
a gracious and flourishing tree.

Time went on,
slowing movement,
but never dulling sense
in those matters
that meant most.

But, winter had come
and her tree
had long been losing
its precious leaves;
all her friends
were gone.

Home and place
had contracted,
from mansion to house,
to now a compartment,
too small to contain
the grandness or the minutiae
of her experience, much less
the people, places and things
that had been her life
and meaning.

The last leaf on her tree,
she realized.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for,
she said.

Though brought low by illness,
still was she able
to feel her feet
roaming the beaches
that had long memorized
her footfalls and
to hear the voices of those
whom she loved,
and who loved her.

Systems failed, though,
body resistant to the will.

Take me home,
she said.

From a final comfort
in her own bed,
she let herself go;
a well-loved, well-lived leaf,
the very last on her tree,
she let herself go,
to drift downward
to the ground.

Take me home,
her spirit breathed.

She was answered
by a breath of wind
that raised her up,
a small fanfare of fluttering free,
and carried her off to the sea.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

From Scratch

Ah! The rains pour down

their balm for the earth,
and in the night, cold
brings on a freeze
that will break
the buried seeds,
when spring finally leaps
out of the womb of winter.

Morning is announced
by a blazing sunrise.

This calls for
Celebration!

Warm the ovens;
oil the pans;
bake ye the bread of life!

Start again from scratch:
chopping onions,
adding herbs,
roasting roots and meats,
tossing a mild salad;
in all things,
be the salt
you sprinkle
with care,
the sugar added to balance,
and test the flavors
as you go!

At last,
fill all the glasses
to their fullest
from any flagon
stayed upon you
[setting aside the best for later]
and place baskets of apples
on the candlelit table.

The time has always been Now!
But, see, you are ready:
Fling wide the doors,
with welcome
and with Love.

Warm embraces of greeting
will lead us to the table,
where we may
fill our hands with
the blessings of this day,
and delight
in the bounty
we all share
that is Life.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen