Easter 1976

Of all the Easters I have lived,

there is but one unique. One weekend

out of all the rest when I was free of

family and obligation, free to wander

as I pleased. I drove from Carolina up to

West Virginia in my little Bug, across the

turnpike bridge, on to the Bryan’s house

where I could celebrate, relax, forget

about my college classes and relationships.

Most memorably, it was the first time

I experienced the luxury, the sprawl,

of being in a double bed all by myself.

I stretched my arms and legs and felt

like royalty with so much room. Now,

decades after, other Easter memories

inhabit one big pleasant room within my mind,

with cheerful thoughts of brand new dresses,

dyeing eggs and hiding them for little

pieces of myself around the yard, the smells

and sounds of corporate family dinners

that we could not duplicate this year.

I would never trade those memories away

but I am grateful for the slender queen

with long brown hair that sits there in a corner 
at the back, remembering and smiling 

as she stretches once again.

(c) 2019 Ellen Gillette

Safer at Home

No one needs my help or time or conversation, so
I fall upon the bed, a scarf that's carelessly thrown
down and stays in place. I close my eyes and listen.
Two clocks are by the bed, both out of reach because
I only use my phone alarm to wake me up, and never
now. One clock sits silent on the desk, intimidated by
the wall clock overhead that loudly ticks the time.
The kitchen hums as dishes wash themselves,
Bradbury-esque. Two rooms away some people talk
on television. A brush is dropped. It's hot enough that
suddenly a blast of cool conditioned air blows
loudly, not quite reaching to the bed. The clang of something
in a drawer. The television stops. The front door opens, shuts.
I focus on my breath and stretch. I wonder if my ankle
bones would crack if forced to turn my foot in circles (yes).
A little sound is new inside my nose as sinuses unseen redecorate
their little rooms. Perhaps that's next. I've cleaned
out closets, pantries, written, drawn. I've talked to friends
too far away. I've cooked more awesome meals within
the week than in the last few months, watched more TV
and washed my hands and exercised. My stomach
gurgles, asking for a snack (denied, this time). Outside,
a saw is whining and I try to match the tone without success.
The front door, followed by the television. I plan to beat
the COVID beat, survive -- I'm not as sure about that clock.
How many do we need in one room anyway? My phone
announces that I've got a message. Almost everything I hear
depends on power, on a cellphone tower, nothing much organic.
Birds were singing in the morning when the windows were still open
to the coolness. I'd like to fly away myself, social distance from the sky
where I could only hear the wind, earth's breath upon
my face as she waves her mighty arms and balances all life below.


(C) 2019, Ellen Gillette

Freedom

The pavement's been resurfaced
and repaired so many times without
a clue that deep below it are the roots
of something anyone would think
quite insignificant, of no real consequence
until it pushes up again, through sand
and gravel and the tar until it finds the
tiniest of openings and fiercely tackles
it until the window of fresh opportunity
becomes a crack, the crack becomes a door
back to the sky beneath a sun the little
plant -- though withered, covered up and
starved of rainfall -- knew that it would
find once more. So patiently it deals
with challenge and adjustments, knowing
there will never be a world in which its
perseverance fails, that there will never
be a world without the sun.

(c) 2020 Ellen Gillette