elysabeth faslund Poems

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You know who and what you are to me.
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The Twelfth of Never came.
Morning song, plainly the same.
New, and old, you walked toward me,
Back through Time. Teared memory
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Monet sunset of neurotic twirled oranges' pink,
cathedraled blusterings of thunderheads high,
lighting, highlighting twilight grays' usurpation...
Did I not see, to envy weathered palettes...
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What comments on 'Celtic Mother, Winter's Crone' poem?
In the time of dead leaves,
when wide-eyed things
frowned at sound,
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Two pounds North wind
One cup Low Tide
One sky, lighting
One bayou, rippling
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What are seasons but children's soft dreams, and
Sunrise, their opening eyes?
Seeing at a glance
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Awe, in each one's delight
Of a night...not eternal, but
Bright. Not full moon, but
Soon...glow follows your
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Suicide: Incense
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Some women get roses.
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Take me with you when you go.
Make room for my dreams
When we leave.
Bring your canvases, brushes...
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