A poem by Ella

Air

I did not understand life, not as a girl
catching the bumble bees by their wings,
skipping a rope, two little braids jumping behind.

The air was cotton,
crisp and fresh
like my just laundered new dress.

Not as young woman finding your love,
soaring to paradise, wings on my back,
I thought life would be bliss.

The air was velvet,
soft and magical to the touch
like white clouds covering us every night.

Not as a mother too busy to think
unnecessary things, tending to tempers
and colds, cooking dinner and wiping tears.

The air was elastic,
stretched to the limit
like my weary, overwrought nerves.

I search for the meaning now, tending
the flowers in my garden, watching each day
draw to its end, yellow leaves, the coming of fall.

The air is a shroud,
smells pungent with decay
like rotting leaves crushed under my feet.


© Ella Zeltserman
pp. 30-31 in Living Room, Suite1, 2011, Edmonton, the Living Room Collective

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