GETTING LIGHTER
Our job now is to lighten,
to hollow ourselves, become
more like birds. A diet of greens and seeds.
To let go of old suitcases
stuffed with souvenirs we no longer need.
Readying ourselves for a weightless future.
Imagine opening the locked door,
letting air into the stagnant dark
of the attic, throwing the window wide
to clear a path for all you’ve hoarded.
Like dandelion seeds in a breeze,
one by one the things that have gathered
dust and cobwebs will at last lift
off their shelves, rise up out of their drawers
and float past you. You won’t care
any more, will no longer resist
as they drift out the open window,
seeing them now as just shells, empty
of what they once held. Relieved
of their musty odor, their dank weight,
you can feel like spring cleaning is done,
a duty you’ve known all along was necessary.
And the people standing on the sidewalk below
will look up, astonished to see
your flotsam and jetsam turning to clouds,
lifting away from this world,
out of gravity’s reach,
leaving your rooms spacious and light-filled,
your messy, tangled heart
finally washed clean.
FINALITY
To finally know autumn,
inhale rusty smokescent.
Watch the last
of the leaves
battered by cold
rain, the gorgeous
brutal scattering.
What was bright
is leaving us. Yet
we are still here, watching.
Joanne Esser is the author of the poetry collection Humming At The Dinner Table, the chapbook I Have Always Wanted Lightning, and the forthcoming All We Can Do Is Name Them, (Fernwood Press, 2025). Recent work appears in Echolocation, I-70 Review, Wisconsin Review, and Plainsongs. She earned an MFA from Hamline University and has been a teacher of young children for over forty years.