When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting and hiking. She leads a birding group twice monthly through the neighborhood trails. She volunteers in animal rescue and tends to cat colonies. Some of her poems have appeared in Impspired, Origami Poetry Project, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review, and other grand places. Her latest collection is “On the whims of the crosscurrents,” published by Red Wolf Editions.
Waiting for flowers
It’s now been a fortnight and we’ve tallied three moons. Leaves wear the green again. May eclipsed March. With a cauldron of topsoil, we dig in the garden; baring hands, gnarling knuckles, crackling of feet. Till daily, come sunrise, I watch as the other ones bloom right before us. (even those strange purple weeds) Still, I open each morning, and hope that our flowers come up.
What she’ll miss most
For some, it's the carousel; others, the surf or the tiki bar. For Jane, it's the skimmers. They come for the season, flying in from the Panhandle. Setting up space, in a square on the sands, nesting their baby chicks. Latter days August; they've hatched and they've fledged. It's time to move south, for this family. Tony will miss the sea air and the zeppeles, the rainbow of snow cones and the double shot daiquiris. For Jane, it's the skimmers; barely a trace of them, this cool, empty morning.
Musing on mourning doves
It starts to get quiet, again. In the puddled reflection, a dozen or so mourning doves methodically pick through debris, revealing the fruit seeds I toss them each day. But most of the summertime flock, along with the leaves on a limbo, have started to sojourn, leaving me longing, feeling the inching of Winter, as I'm counting down backwards, one leaf, and one bird, at a time.