Beauty Unframed author Lisa Elmers writes about life, loveliness, and seeing something where you thought there was nothing.

hope

hope

i hope – death – is not an ingrown thing

close or cloistered, sightless, airless

a crawling inward, down and down

only to some quotidian selfishness –

to basic baseness, under blankets.

 

but instead a fumbling out –

a forward slip of the headlong sprinter

who has been running, after all,

only toward this – ineluctable – line.

 

and in the fumble, as i fall

i hope my hands, flung far from me

– boldened, believing  –

open to touch – the rushing pavement.

 

(em)blason

(em)blason

three trees

three trees