Aurora Weinhold
By
Emily Bilman
Microcosm
The car stopped at every turn
at very short intervals. Restarted
on every turn, the traffic halted
in every junction, shattering
us like bees on burning grass.
At the next turn, the car finally stopped
dead in front of a small orthodox chapel
painted in royal blue among the pines,
the birches, the copper beeches,
and flower-beds spread between
the condominiums – a microcosm
of the big blue-domed, star-studded
naval cathedral of St. Nicolas
host to seamen, host to us.
Delight
In an unexplored forest of trees
Of thick ferns, flowers, and foliage,
The cedar, the pine, the gingko
Stir my curiosity as I enter my quest.
An inquisitive child, I observe
Each leaf-vein that leads to a new word,
Each climbing ivy that forms an inward
Sentence. A poem is unknowable
Until written down upon the slyvan page,
A new mystery. Such delight in word-play,
In writing and re-writing as the rhythm
Carries me to new realms imagined
On the spur of a sudden insight.
The Present prolonged is such delight!
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