is the round rise and bake
of a loaf of brown bread,
the head of a sunflower
making room for sister seeds
slowly lifting their day skirts.
Rusted door of the garden shed
smelling of unused potting soil
in stacked, cracked, plastic pots,
the top one hosting a stubborn
new life reaching for light through
a side window broken by a bird,
once beautiful and blue. Boxes
upon boxes of books filled with
silverfish and foxed dog ears
that no one wants to admit belong
to no one. The calendar of loss
still hanging on a nail.

---

Ellen Rowland creates, concocts and forages when she’s not writing or leading poetry workshops. She is the author of two collections of haiku, Light, Come Gather Me and Blue Seasons, as well as the book Everything I Thought I Knew, essays on living, learning and parenting unconventionally. Her latest poetry collection, No Small Thing, was published by Fernwood Press in 2023. You can find her writing in One Art, Braided Way and Silver Birch Press, among others. She lives off the grid with her family on an island in Greece. Connect with her on Instagram and Facebook.

---