VOICES FROM THE FIRE: Emalisa Rose

The pipedream of permanence

These rocks wear our names in

a pipedream of permanence.

Yet somewhere we’ve buried

our cabernet moon, our clinking

of glasses, rhyme over reason.

The sun steals our shadow.

I sent you two poems, penned

in the frenzy of midnight and

madness; our signatures linked

in the marquise’s italics.

Turnaround/turnaround.

The leaves kiss the sparrows.

It’s all as we’d written, though

it’s now grown apparent –

You’ve come to forget me.

Our summer of dandelions

In remiss of their wishes

they collapse on the side road

of Autumn’s diminishing fields.

Depleted, exhausted,

they gave what they could

of their destiny, written.

Come what may follow.

Without seeking semblance

or accolades, dandelions

submit to the crosswinds.

The flowers within

With some tools and

some topsoil, we toiled

on that miniscule patch

between the swings and

the picnic table, to grow

our first flowers.

Sadly, our timing was off,

unaware that April still frosts.

Our seeds never sprouted 

but our teamwork and talk

rewarded a gift of together  time, both of us cherished

That red wing revival

Truthfully, there’s not much

deviation in the stenciling of

branch after branch, mile after

mile, on the winter worn sky.

Save for cliche, of the red wing

revival, that breaks through the

funk of it, soothing the sorrow,

eluding to, yes, there’s an afterlife.

All on the drive back, from

Aunt Marie’s funeral.

Pebbles of prophecy

Sketching the shoreline, we

capture the twilight’s transition.

Countering clockwise, as

the evening had widened

I blinked twice, all’s been redacted

Our morning time musings,

now sea siphoned scribblings.

Particles morphed

into pebbles of prophecy

Here, where so little sustains

past the waves’ grand rotations.

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