STILLBORN Still, with milk my breasts Still, with love my arms Still, at night I rock Still, so still my tears Still, with pain my womb Still, with God my child.
More Quotes from Elaine Christensen:
Whenever It Rains Frulein Dr. Sauter, our religion teacher, wore hand-knit underwear. Couldn't buy any she was as big as Noah's Ark. Whenever it rains, I think of her. She loved that story. Wanted to sail away, 'cupped in God's hands.' She'd clasp hers,Elaine Christensen
Sorrow Is A Box Of Flowers What it's all about is sorrow I've become convinced of that sorrow fences each field sorrow clings to stone walls sorrow hedges the road on both sides when her son died sorrow coated her spoon it curled in her bed it hung in her.
Elaine Christensen
Inside me there is a dancer. Inside this middle-aged body of a housewife there is a dancer. Don't laugh. I have danced with sunflowers in sandy September fields with fruit trees each spring, blossoms in my hair at the lake's edge in winter where tall grass and thin reeds wobble on pointed toes in the wind and in summer with the sea where anyone can find the dancer inside. Don't laugh. Barefoot, arms outstretched, palms raised to the sky, to the birds, to the clouds, to God, who choreographed it all, I danced. I knew every step and the waves stood up and bowed.
Elaine Christensen
DRY LAND All around me your death like some great ocean rages, wave after crashing wave till the cliffs of my arms give way to defenseless shore and I lie blackened against the sand. My hair streams like weeds about my head and pulls me, as surely as the moon pulls her tides, to the depths of earth. In darkness, I am swallowed. In darkness, I remember Jonah... that God prepared for him a black fish and after three days and three nights dear God, dry land appeared.
Elaine Christensen
A Hair's Breadth In Burma there is a huge rock that balances on the edge of a cliff, kept from toppling, they say, by one hair plucked from Buddha's beard. Monks rise early to climb the steep, jagged path to view this miracle as the sun begins its day shi.
Elaine Christensen
WAKING In spring I write of earth still half asleep, of matted grass and weeds not yet aware that stretching fingers stir the soil down deep and sift the frozen dreams of roots with air that breathes forgotten scents of blossoming. I write of branches stiff and gnarled with cold, like ancient bones that can't remember spring or how the sun could painlessly unfold each timid, paling leaf. I write of birds returning one by one. They leave their flocks for tempting caterpillars scrawled like words across my garden wall of crumbling rocks. These early signs of spring unthaw my brain from numbing winter rest. I write again.
Elaine Christensen
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