Pollen

 

The day is tranquil, and you carry yourself out to sit in it,

sky, still, blue,

painted with pocket-sized clouds

 

but if you look a certain way,

at just the right moment,

you’ll see the incredible movement of pollen

 

rising like smoke from the trees

dancing, billowing, constellating

 

a blush of travelers,

spontaneously invisible

 

a thin film,

twinkling

 

from certain angles,

a layer of a dream

 

 

 

Release

 

I

Too late, I let you dissolve,

you were dust when you could have been rain.

 

II

I picture a picture I never should have seen

of you, a dream in your eyes

bent forward, toothpick dangling, in black and white,

the ghost story I fell in love with,

you always existed in memory alone.

 

III

In some tellings you were the firefly,

other times you were the jar,

more than you know,

we are the same

I promise I won’t hold against you

anything you’ve done to get free.

 

 

 

I Know of a Place

 

I know of a place where

the mountains meet the sea

 

where the air smells of jasmine and bread and olive soap.

We walk rhythmically down old alleyways in the morning

 

where cedars humbly breathe for us,

where existence is the poet

 

I know of a place where

contradiction is not washed away but painted into the night

 

where chaos can be sweet and drunk like tea

while we walk barefoot through vines in the morning.

 

Some people close their eyes and see pictures

fully formed and tangible as paper

 

for others, to see behind our eyes

is a metaphor

 

an abstract idea of an image

just out of reach

 

yes, like this,

I know of a place.

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Ellie Ellias is a poet, writer, and creative astrologer currently living in Ottawa, Canada. She finds inspiration in everything from dreams and nature to spilled wine and well-timed typos.

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