Suze Francis


My writing voice
is the texture of pliant:
sliding cool, gliding and sheer,
seeing and passing over or
scooping up and entangling,
sometimes obscuring with its fizz and delight.

My writing voice seeks
this hold for that curve;
this word for that truth.

My writing voice names
diaphanous trees waving past
dark rocks steady in the depths below.

My writing voice is a babble of commentary
running alongside
the wordless vein of experience
that throbs through the self.




Who has seen the wind? Me.
In the exhausted tree, the worn
lines of plants in my dawn
garden, in the sand form rushing
along the beach throwing
itself at us, spoiling our food.
I saw this wind.  Its rude
gusts making children brood and cry.
The edges of it, I noticed
in the corner of my
eye that day; now in my memory.


Entangling wind tries to
free even while it captures – holds
us captive with chaos
breeding urgent desperation
to be still and escape
its persistent distraction.


It’s not the season that
Makes the dark but the wind in spring.