Faded Blossom

Dog Days
The porch swing hangs heavy.
The potted plants sigh.
But none is so hot nor
So weary as I.
The music of crickets,
The buzz of the fly,
Is droning unanswered
Tired and dry.
The sun on the garden
Has dried every leaf.
The vines are all withered;
Gone summer’s feast.
The Queen Anne has faded,
Is no longer white.
All life waits in stillness
For coolness of night.
We watch for the promise
Of color on trees,
Of pears and of pumpkins
To come with the ease,
Of cooler and wetter
Oh, welcome relief
From the dog days of summer
The satin cerise
Of summer’s late sunsets
Those guarantee all
The geese winging southward
God sending us fall.
©Elece Hollis 

Old Basket Full of History

 Basket
 By Elece Hollis

Old basket, you make me wonder
You make my mind twist back
Into the spaces where time was still young.

In a thrift shop, I found you
Unwanted, uncared for, unrecognized
I saw you and took you home.

I washed dust from your weave in hottest water
Your vines drank in that liquid like gold.
I hung you on my porch to dry.

Who made you? A pioneer housewife?
I think so. I say she carried you to town with her
Saturdays on the seat of the buckboard.

Her daughter salvaged you from the leanto  later
and used you for storing her scissors,
her sewing threads, and needles.

She left you behind when
The family left for California. No room
For fragile wicker baskets.

A grocer picked you from the auctioneers goods.
He painted red letters across your front.
He set you on his countertop to hold gardening trowels.

When he retired and the store closed
You went to the small house at the edge of town.
There you carried eggs to the water pump to be washed.

You hung and dripped and the eggs dried.
The egg business drooped and you
Hung in the sun until your red letters faded.

You were stashed in a corner of the garage.
You held old gloves and dust.
Dust again like those depression years.

After the sale where noone claimed you,
You went to live in the bin of the thrift store.
You were tossed aside until I walked in.

Now you are mine. I chersihed your legacy.
I love your history. I admire your longevity.
I hope you will stay a long time here at my house.

A piece of the past. My piece of history,
Your handle still straight ready to be of service,
Waiting on my porch in the sunshine.

Old Basket Full of History

 Basket

 By Elece Hollis

Old basket, you make me wonder

You make my mind twist back

Into the spaces where time was still young.

In a thrift shop, I found you

Unwanted, uncared for, unrecognized

I saw you and took you home.

I washed dust from your weave in hottest water

Your vines drank in that liquid like gold.

I hung you on my porch to dry.

Who made you? A pioneer housewife?

I think so. I say she carried you to town with her

Saturdays on the seat of the buckboard.

Her daughter salvaged you from the leanto  later

and used you for storing her scissors,

her sewing threads, and needles.

She left you behind when

The family left for California. No room

For fragile wicker baskets.

A grocer picked you from the auctioneers goods.

He painted red letters across your front.

He set you on his countertop to hold gardening trowels.

When he retired and the store closed

You went to the small house at the edge of town.

There you carried eggs to the water pump to be washed.

You hung and dripped and the eggs dried.

The egg business drooped and you

Hung in the sun until your red letters faded.

You were stashed in a corner of the garage.

You held old gloves and dust.

Dust again like those depression years.

After the sale where noone claimed you,

You went to live in the bin of the thrift store.

You were tossed aside until I walked in.

Now you are mine. I chersihed your legacy.

I love your history. I admire your longevity.

I hope you will stay a long time here at my house.

A piece of the past. My piece of history,

Your handle still straight ready to be of service,

Waiting on my porch in the sunshine.

Spring is Almost Here

Spring in the Meadow
By Elece Hollis

The treetops show a palest green.

The iris fronds point straight and clean.

The daffodils nod in between

The earth and sky.

The air above is slate-grey blue;

It shines with very different hue

Than golden warm when robins flew

South in the fall.


The grass appears about to burst

Forth from the ground whose long cold thirst

Is sated now with the fresh first

Swells of spring rain.


Under the mat of last year’s grass

Bright flowers struggle up to pass

Through to the sun’s warm rays at last

From winter’s night.


The geese fly honking overhead,

As Spring arises from his bed;

He shakes himself, comes to be fed

On bread of light.



 Spring has not arrived, but come,


Like Papa from a journey home,

Calls from the soil, calls from the loam

“I’m almost there!”

Spring is Almost Here

Spring in the Meadow
By Elece Hollis

The treetops show a palest green.

The iris fronds point straight and clean.

The daffodils nod in between

The earth and sky.

The air above is slate-grey blue;

It shines with very different hue

Than golden warm when robins flew

South in the fall.


The grass appears about to burst

Forth from the ground whose long cold thirst

Is sated now with the fresh first

Swells of spring rain.


Under the mat of last year’s grass

Bright flowers struggle up to pass

Through to the sun’s warm rays at last

From winter’s night.


The geese fly honking overhead,

As Spring arises from his bed;

He shakes himself, comes to be fed

On bread of light.



 Spring has not arrived, but come,


Like Papa from a journey home,

Calls from the soil, calls from the loam

“I’m almost there!”