Ellen White Rook is a poet, writer, and teacher of contemplative arts residing in upstate New York and southern Maine. She offers workshops on ikebana, Japanese flower arranging, and leads Sit, Walk, Write retreats that merge meditation, movement, and writing. Ellen is a recent graduate from the Master of Fine Arts program at Lindenwood University. Her work has been published in Montana Mouthful, New Verse News, Red Rock Review, and Trolley Literary Journal. In 2021, two of her poems were nominated for Pushcart Prize.
We sat on your brown couch which used to be my brown couch in your fifth-floor apartment
overlooking the park which used to be my fifth-floor apartment overlooking the park. You
poured a torrent of Chardonnay and shook your bland Brad Pitt dirty blonde hair. The Park
lamps, which were supposed to look like wrought iron gaslights, washed circles of dog tracks
and boot prints in the blue snow. It was the beginning of a new year, but it was as if every living
thing had disappeared. You lied about your middle name, the color of your socks, and what you
had been doing on Lake Avenue the previous afternoon. The next day, as soon as it was dark,
you would be a gaunt tree beneath my window, and I would be looking down.