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



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.




three trees

three trees