Last chances grown dim,

and lust cringed, for I my soul,

had no conquest.

To brown-clear cider

in blustery kegs,

the pomander’s simmer

and baby blue eggs.

Be of the light

for, always, sail 

and twice, move. 

Emily Isaacson

The tempting ideals,

the chocolate in its wrapper,

and I in my dressing gown.

Moments from affliction’s source

and first, the shedding of the breath,

O thirst now satisfied.

And in its seasons turn

the leaves to crimson

and the dawn to sage. 

Circling, in an arc,

oh pensive souls:

repeating only the grafted gray-blue,

as seagulls do, cry.

Riveting the far-away lands

with verse and poets unbeknownst.

Shall we find our passage, find our doom?

Shall we find India, at starboard? 

Emily Isaacson