About ellensymons

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Falling through my fingers

Moments fall through my fingers, grains blown in the wind of turning planets. This is all I have, this square of grass, this pinprick of time. A heartbeat. A flashing thought. And so I dry my eyes, and start again.

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The world, on the page

The world in the hours before dawn is rich with story. In the dark, eyes closed, cat purring in my lap, my mind fills with words I must write, jewels tumbling from the place where imagination is born: overflowing my palms, spilling from my fingers to the page.

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Poems from novels-in-progress

It should not surprise me that each of my novels has a poem at its core.

And “each of my novels” means the one I am writing now, and the three that are waiting in my journal for their turn.

One of those still in the journal has the working title Sky+Moon—which, yes, is bad but will lead to something better—and these two work-in-progress poems. (Which, yes, are also straight from the roughest of rough notes, but ya gotta dance with who brung ya.)

I
When I see you
your fine chin and your
broad shoulder, the curved line
of your waist and the sway
of your hip, your long arms and strong
legs—with their hands and their
feet dancing through air as you
walk
toward me,

my heart

leaps the space between
us, before my body and
my head have known
what they must do

II
Lie beside me on the shaded grass
your head on my shoulder
the sun on our feet,
lie here and I will tell you
the story of our lives, when you
are my beloved and I hold you finely
as the sky does the moon.

~ ~ ~

The black animal

Ten a.m., three quarters through February, I’m driving along 7th Line to town, tall trees and deep snow on either side, a house or two glimpsed through branches: suddenly, ahead, as the road slopes up, from the trees on the right bounds a black animal, leaping across the road from one side of the woods to the other.

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1998

The year you died the rain fell frozen in weeping sheets
Breaking the boughs and the backs of the trees
All of us hunched over our aching hearts
It’s taken 20 years for the forest to regrow
And here we are
In another winter storm
Ice-burdened again
Yet patched as time will do
Ruined limbs amputated
Spines haltingly unfurled

 

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