Ellen Porter
12/20/07
Therapy

My visitors
have spoken of dying
as if it were a science to be learned
not a mystery, unfolding.

And as a science text
that roils my brain and numbs my bones,
this riddle sets my belly quivering,
uncertain of its labyrinthine path.

Bundled for winter
I break into chilled air
ride through blackened snow
just to hear your therapeutic voice
dissuade my tentative neurosis.

We rip the science and
strew it like new snow.
You hand me back the mystery.
In safe haven,
in solitude,
I can deal with the death rune alone


Ellen Porter
2/3/06
There Are No Promises Left

What is the poet to write
after the peach has fallen
the sunrise has promised warmth
the creek has spent
cold water on ancient rock?

Once the beauty has been given
the memory darkens
and there are no promises left.
The pencil draws across paper
out of discipline
but the soul is hidden
the mystery gone.