Every time I write, I’m chilled,
Cold, unwilled and declined, booted,
Beaten, whipped and stripped of self.

Of course, this happens every winter.

(If I could travel into an iceberg,
From beginning to end, I’d be almost
Always chambered, where one tiny
Refraction of light could reach my multi-eye,
Through crystal-prismed forms. I might have
Once been a snowflake, but now I want more.)

Every time I write, I’m greened, seethingly new,
Twigged, budded and catkinned, bursting,
Reveling, dancing and prancing with myself.

Of course, this happens every spring.

(If I could spiral a vine’s lines,
From start to finish, so quickly I would rise,
Into the sunlight! Expanding as a flower, orgasmic
And sighing, refract my colors into sunshine!
All the while singing old songs of blunders,
Past wonders of amoebism, but now, we want more.)

Every time I write, I’m hot, and languid,
Singed, sweaty and declined, boiled,
Driven, reaching and sucking all else out of self.

Of course, this happens every summer.

(If I could fallow my fields, peacefully,
From A to Z, I’d be gravid and grave, pursuing
Beliefs believed to be true , wishing for coolness,
Wishing for relief, refracting stuffiness, searching
For a way out of fertility, weighed by brevity,
Remissing and remembering how I wanted more.)

Every time I write, I’m falling, flailing
Leaves from trees, burnishing maternity,
Restless, unriven, casting off selves.

Of course, this happens every autumn.

(If I could forever harvest Time, successfully,
From end to end, I guess I’d have to die,
Shadowed by silhouettes of leaf-shaped
Distractions, plummeting to the ground,
As the ground plummets up, unenlightened by non-futures,
Guess getting aged and brittle repeats itself.)

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 3/2/13