Under the honeysuckle

dripping knots of summer

fragrance,

the swing buckles

against my legs and

the hum of grass blowing onto

the sidewalk curtains

the silver sounds

of nocturne:

silent, so sweet,

like baby’s breath . . .

and last whisper vanishing.

  Emily Isaacson

One broken green riverbank

led to another world,

silenced by the thorns.

my dress torn:

the bird seed,

recklessly, recklessly

scattered . . .

magpies

fluttered About the cool

stone bench.

Requiem in a

spruce grove

in the damask dusk,

the mist of the presence

eluding our senses like ice.

     Emily Isaacson