by Elizabeth G. Howard

before we say goodbye

passion is untidy, its
shards and splinters 
a clammy wreckage, 
its colors all wrong, not 
the soft ocean blue, not
the green mossy dew, but
effervescence and charcoal
smears, death popping up
and toppling while you 
wait in line for a beer.
passion you wear out and 
live in, broken earth, 
burbling as a brook, 
as a lava flow, 
all together hurtling 
towards frozen ends. 
and here we are 
grasping and gasping 
inside the purple 
and the orange,
last snatch of day,
slipping away,
lost inside marveling.
take a final look
take a final sigh 
before we finish, 
before we roll away, 
before we say goodbye.

even this leaf

even this leaf once
waited to emerge,
once wanted more
than a bud's potential.

there is no incremental age:
only living or not.
even this leaf
still knows the sun's warmth,
still sips the tree's strength.

what do you need 
that you don't already have?
it's all inside you, inside you,
ready to burst forth,
ready to quiver in the wind.

don't buy another lipstick.
of what use is that next upgrade?
even this leaf 
knows it's a trick –

listen to your dreams.
listen to the howls coming
from outside. 
this is your time

to float free 
unburdened by 
mean, soggy
constructs that 
don't know the first fucking thing about you.

___


Elizabeth G. Howard (she/her) explores gender, power, and the natural world in her poetry and fiction. She’s published in Tupelo Press, eMerge, American Craft, Boston Literary Review, Connecticut Poetry Society, and more. A Writer’s Colony at Dairy Hollow resident, she’s the author of the collection No Wonder: Poems (2025). She calls Kansas City home. Find her on IG @demandpoet.