Plein Air, by Elanur Williams

The flowers 
dance, a shift 

in the tilt
of light

before the earth
remembers 

its own longing: 
each one

a reclaiming. 
It is not bold 

strokes, 
but careful precision,

gossamer 
on a spider’s web.

This is not art
for gallery wall,

but for hands,
for places

language runs 
out. Like water 

finding its path,
it pulls. 

She cannot name 
this knowing that arrives, 

a feeling before 
it has words.

Some knowledge
in the body

long before
the mind is ready.

It does not illuminate.
It hums.

–

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Elanur Williams writes from New York City. Her writing has previously been published in Eunoia Review, 3Elements, Door is a Jar, the Ekphrastic Review, and elsewhere.

© 2025, Elanur Williams