top of page

Beauty on the wind

Oh, wretched exhale.

When the wind carries lavender, balsam or brine

my nose wants more than my lungs can give.

The earth’s own musk calls me like a lover

and I stop and breathe, wanting only to inhale,

to consume and be consumed.

To hold within me the beauty on the wind.


Beth Holly is in the midst of a personal renaissance, having recently left a twenty eight-year marriage and a thirty five-year career as an attorney. Writing has become the vehicle for speaking the truth of her life experience and sharing her unquenchable thirst for adventure, learning and joy. Her writing has been featured in HerStry and is forthcoming in the Chicago Story Press. She is the mother of two wonderful adult children and lives in New York with her two hairy dogs.

Recent Posts

See All

I counted sewing pins in the pin cushion before and after I sewed your little dress for fear a pin gone stray would pierce your tender roaming toddler feet I seemed programmed to meet your every need

I don’t concern myself with wrinkles now that I have started drawing eyebrows. Some days my eyebrows are movie star right so high in the arched places. It’s like I am looking down my nose from a cliff

They say he cannot reach me, cannot touch me. They say anxiety breeds him, makes him. He’s real enough to me. Those shocking, sibilant, small sounds unnamed, unknown, whistling down the wind. Cob spid

bottom of page