It seems a panic has begun, of one,
recording sessions slipping by; each one
remembered differently, yet the same,
as such it always seems a dream, survived.

When touch of wings benign slip over face,
it seems such dreams as seasons-hot inside,
where wandering beyond the need to share
becomes the motive; what we seek in life.

I think the years become a tree, in place
upon a forest bald. Too late resides
the spirit gone besides. Too late I care,
december casts away its haunted wife.

Again a season passes me, devised
a chamber bright, again, a sacrifice.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 7/12/11