Solitude

I would like to be lonely now,

to wonder what it all meant; 

to sift the hoard, slowly.

You do these things alone 

on days that are gray or blue,

under trees that are bare 

or still raining their leaves—

if you catch one 

still in the air,

a leaf that would never touch ground 

‘til the questions are answered

and the pages are full. 

                                         Cheryl Emerson

11/9/2013



Carl Sandburg's chair,
Flat Rock, North Carolina

Like This

A day that reminds you of what you dreamed,

that life would be like this:

leaves on a path under bicycle wheels. 

I remember being young,

when the wooly bear would tell you

precisely how long the winter would be. 

You memorized the clouds

like a song you hoped 

would rise in your mind at dawn,

for the part of you that’s given to sound:

all you thought before everything else, 

the sense of stillness when you stared at the sky,

that life would be like this,

if you could last just long enough. 

                                                Cheryl Emerson

                                                11/2/2013

 

Connemara

Night Rain

The falling day still falling,

I cannot say what moment  

the sight of you

set upon memory of you,  

surrendering the afterlight

when all moments rain 

where the earth would be,

what the clouds held of you. 

Time is the falling water. 

                  Cheryl Emerson

                            9/15