by Ellen White Rook
on the one-year anniversary of the last time I got dressed up
In this country,
there is no minister for loneliness.
We make do with general anxiety.
The wind, loose, plucks
the last pinecones and builds
horizontal crowns across the snow.
After this year of quizzical
breath and fingers pressed
against glass walls, houseplants
are overgrown from too much care:
Ivies overthrow terracotta
and aloe spikes weave
through jades.
An amaryllis
that hasn’t bloomed in years,
this week leapt a green arc from its nest
of tiny stones. The thumb-bud aims
precisely where the sun comes up
even though I turn the pot
each morning and some days,
the sky stays winter pale.
The red sepals unfold
precisely the shade
of that last lipstick smile.
Ellen White Rook is a poet and teacher of contemplative arts residing in upstate New York and southern Maine. In the pre-COVID-19 world, she offered workshops on Japanese flower arranging and led day-long Sit, Walk, Write retreats that merge meditation, movement, and writing. In 2021, you can find her on Zoom. Although a senior citizen, Ellen is a recent graduate from the Master of Fine Arts program at Lindenwood University. Her work has been published in Montana Mouthful and Trolley Literary Journal.
