ELIZABETH POTTS WEINSTEIN - POEMS

Elizabeth Potts Weinstein is a small business attorney and writer, living in California. She is developing poetry projects exploring life transition, support structures, and choice. Find her at https://www.instagram.com/elizabethpw/  

​The Whispers. 

​Everyday. Everynight. Every. 
Wouldn’t They be better without the bother of you?
 
She flees from Them, climbing. To the oaks.
To the blue, the hawk. The wind, sings.
 
Unload here, in the mud. Create a little life.
Here, there is enough space to exist.
 
The hermit on the hill retires in communion.
Yes, Someday. But for now she descends,
back to the collective alone.
 
--
 

​Still. Waiting. 

​Walking him to the door, everyday. Kissing
goodbye, laying out the pressed shirt, listening
for the engine in the driveway, cooking
spiced minestrone with the white beans.
 
Still. Waiting.
 
Unwashed dishes. Unmowed lawn.
Unbinned trashed. Unemptied litter.
Unstroked hair. Unnoticed heart.
 
Still. Waiting.
 
Somewhere misplaced.
Who places visit?
What delight?
Where movies like?
When positions opine?
How foods devour?
 
The hospital nights on the fold-out chair.
 
Still. Waiting.
 
--

​The Rain Cannot Reach Through Two Thousand Years
 

Climbing static,
they descend to the roots of the earth.
 
My iPhone upgrade failure,
my missing the call for the bell;
they are all irrelevancies under their eye.
 
The relentless calm infects me;
I forget about time.
 
Oh my child, can't you breathe eternal?
Can't you fall into the blood of the forest?
Can't you hear the stars?
 
Here, the darkness cannot speak to me.
Here, I am companioned in my alone.
 
--
 

​The Collectors  

​The collectors scarred her neighbor, footprints bruising where
they captured their sandwiches.
 
Before, she was jealous of his abundance.
 
Yes, she had the crawlers, the frozen fire,
the slow-pushers, the millennia-diggers.
 
But the quick-live-ers gathered. Plotted. Marked.
Their acknowledgement gave him Importance.
 
Then she watched as they left detritus on her companion,
cutting his broadsides, until finally, his voice beat empty.
 
She was thankful for her abandon.
 
Until one spring day when a petite-whistler
wandered on her back,
and fell asleep under the warm.