The whole earth is singing–
I hear it,
I dance to it,
I add my own words when I have them–
mostly, I am quiet,
taking in the whispers of the tulip poplars,
the humming of the giant rain droplets on the long blades of grass:
orbs with tiny worlds in them–
the seasons change there, too.
I am a part of the changing season,
becoming something new,
growing rings farther from my core–
from what is safe and small–
and closer to the air I have yet to touch,
to dance in.
I am learning from the black oaks,
the hickories,
the wise giants with their careful, rhythmic swaying
and slow-reaching branches,
closer and closer each year
toward whatever they were born to want,
toward each other,
toward the sky
and the warmth of the sun.
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 9:36 PM UTC
The day is cold and calm,
kissing at my cheeks and ears,
staining me pink
and offering quiet advice–
I listen to it,
pay attention
to the tiny cardinal steps
in the tall snow
as the sun sets
and the faraway trees become orange mountains,
as the straight-up branches of a naked pear tree
point to God,
and I know that I am changing again.
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC
So many days before
the warm-wind is back,
and I am looking for angels
beneath the dirt of my lawn,
where I sleep and dance and pray
in June;
I open my mouth and scream
into the ground,
so only the bugs and dead things know
what I am afraid of:
that tomorrow I will be older
and still know nothing.
-Ellery Rose
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 1:04 PM UTC
I linger in the lamp-light of my room,
cling to the yellow bulb
and buzz around it
while the night becomes
quiet
and hungry outside.
I search
between the folds of my half-sleeping mind–
nothing much awake in there,
but the hum of a summer night,
visions of places I’ve not yet been.
So, I sleep without much to say,
dream about mountains and mosquito bites,
guitar circles and someone to sing to across the fire,
then a warm home
full of sleeping babes,
with a lamp in every room,
so they will always know the sun.
-Ellery Rose
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 12:32 PM UTC
The sky is bone-white
and guilty-faced,
and some horrible cry is preparing itself
between my two lips–
I have become lamb from sheep,
regressed again;
I cannot stop screaming,
I cannot graze the land
without knowing that I am becoming
someone I have already been.
The things that make me happy,
that used to,
all exist in some other place:
where I came from,
where I’ll never be again,
where the creek water is always warm
and the lamb-scream
is so deep inside of me
I cannot reach it with my fist.
- Ellery Rose
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 12:21 PM UTC