by Eleanor Goldfield

There’s a barren beauty to the late year –

a sleeping beauty

a quiet life that whispers –

before the crescendo of spring

a patient pulse

that the busy mind would find –


but for all our hurried hours –

our surface sprint –

it is this dark earth –

these frozen veins –

that carry promise

a still life –

is still life

a necessary slow –

that quickens time –

a remind

that now is then and then is past

neither a heady summer

nor a faded fall –

will last

This is part of a new series called “Poetry Plates” that I may turn into a book…

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