Elizabeth Adilman

Word Count 223

i

there is a lack of quiet now

too much fruit in the bowl &

harsh light without trees

to soften

ii

sometimes people just stop

talking to you—or if they do

it’s lite

iii

trust your inner light

the warm glow of quiet

knowing—a collection of stones

iiii

the only thing more quiet

than a potted white Orchid

are its fallen petals,

crinkled and old.

Sometimes answers are found like this, without warning, collected—the way birds find what

they need to build their nests; knots of fallen hair found, burls washed up and tangled from the

surf. Now, summer is hotter than ever before. I find it disturbing that tomatoes are available all

the time. We have lost the boundaries of seasons. When she began to get too close to a thread I

try to hold on to, just for myself, I knew it wasn’t only my hairdresser I had to change—so, I held

myself in the palm of my own hands, placed rocks there &; slowly curled my fingers around them

but didn’t clench. I trusted myself—to grow myself long. Then, I sat in front of the window

where a white Orchid was blooming, had blossomed in the past, &; where there, along the base

of the ceramic vessel lay the answer like an altar, old and wide to my question.

Elizabeth earned her MFA in poetry at the age of 60. A Canadian author, she is inspired by nature—the nature of who we are, how we got here and how to live fully with each moment. Her work is forthcoming or has been published in anthologies: Voicing Suicide; The Sky is Falling, The Sky is Falling; Island Writer Magazine, Minerva Rising Press, and VanIsle Poetry Collective, and Beyond Words among others. You can find her on Instagram at @eadilman