She has a bookshelf for a heart and a current of ink for veins. Her skilled insight and works of art are creativity’s sweet gain. She’ll write you into her story with the quick quill inside her brain.
The Heart’s Bookshelf
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Poems
Redbud Hills
From between dark cedars and whiskered pines, spring steps out. In the blush of redbud tree’s purple blooms, wildflowers burst forth from hidden winter tombs. Against the backdrop of elegant purple, trees about don their veils so white. Soft leaves appear, dotting green on the maple trees. The spring is here.
Golden Hour
This is golden day: a single moment that lasts for hours. I am standing in this field of brown, crisp grass and stubborn wildflowers, where the scent of summer stays. My feet are rooted in the dark earth. My eyes are closed, but my mind is open, absorbing the liveliness of this world.
The Impossibility of Joy
I feel it, a certain heaviness in my heart as I’m making my way home one evening. Joy and Sorrow are very nearly always together, are very nearly always mine to hold—every mountaintop and every valley: my story.
To My Hands
Are you my friend? You have always cared for me, caught my tears, catered to every color I tried to dye my hair. You didn’t mind the dirt when I dug spaces in the garden, and I smiled at how gently you guided flowers to fill them.
Heaven
Why does heaven feel closer in the woods? I ask that as if I do not know the answer. Maybe I simply want to tell myself why. The sky is closer up here in this tree, and the forest is where I pour myself out, always hoping, always asking to be filled back up—but not with what I had before. Never what I had before.
Wind and Rain
“Tell me, Wind,” said Rain, “you who catches me in your cool embrace, what it means to wander, to wander the world, to want no direction.”
Student
I learned to bury myself in exams and exhaustion, in pink highlighters and black thoughts, in study guides and late nights, in straight As and tangled headphones. I learned everything I was supposed to be, and everything I wasn’t; I learned that I could live my best life and still see pieces of my worst.
Coronation
The moon burned red in the deep, dark pool. The stars gazed down in awe as the maid strode down the ancient path, her fate engraved by law.
Teddies
By Eliana Duran As the old lady sits in her wooden porch chair, She sews together a blue teddy bear. For years she’s sat in the shade of the birch, Sewing a bear for each baby at church. There aren’t any now, but there’s never been a drought. There isn’t much time...
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