�In poet and artist Elena Botts� new poetry collection: epochs of morning light, we see a shimmering, variegated new voice; we hear: �where the trees still talk to each other, and winter feels like a song...� (from When I have died we will be here). We feel the weather of her emotions; a contract with the ethereal and the visceral, as when we stand within the short but large poem: blossoms back to under the earth: �I felt your ghost move through me out past the Baltic as though you had been in my heart the whole time.� In this sensual canvas, beauty never suffers from loneliness, nor the sublime. Each poem herein as Botts wanders memory and weaves tapestries of word worlds, reveals a true and original voice in modern poetry: allowing light to conquer darkness; darkness to defy the estate of the sun, and colors mixed in ways only an artist of the pen could fathom�� - Robert Milby, Hudson Valley New York poet, Poet Laureate, Orange County, NY 2017-2019

�In poet and artist Elena Botts� new poetry collection: epochs of morning light, we see a shimmering, variegated new voice; we hear: �where the trees still talk to each other, and winter feels like a song...� (from When I have died we will be here). We feel the weather of her emotions; a contract with the ethereal and the visceral, as when we stand within the short but large poem: blossoms back to under the earth: �I felt your ghost move through me out past the Baltic as though you had been in my heart the whole time.� In this sensual canvas, beauty never suffers from loneliness, nor the sublime. Each poem herein as Botts wanders memory and weaves tapestries of word worlds, reveals a true and original voice in modern poetry: allowing light to conquer darkness; darkness to defy the estate of the sun, and colors mixed in ways only an artist of the pen could fathom�� - Robert Milby, Hudson Valley New York poet, Poet Laureate, Orange County, NY 2017-2019

�In poet and artist Elena Botts� new poetry collection: epochs of morning light, we see a shimmering, variegated new voice; we hear: �where the trees still talk to each other, and winter feels like a song...� (from When I have died we will be here). We feel the weather of her emotions; a contract with the ethereal and the visceral, as when we stand within the short but large poem: blossoms back to under the earth: �I felt your ghost move through me out past the Baltic as though you had been in my heart the whole time.� In this sensual canvas, beauty never suffers from loneliness, nor the sublime. Each poem herein as Botts wanders memory and weaves tapestries of word worlds, reveals a true and original voice in modern poetry: allowing light to conquer darkness; darkness to defy the estate of the sun, and colors mixed in ways only an artist of the pen could fathom�� - Robert Milby, Hudson Valley New York poet, Poet Laureate, Orange County, NY 2017-2019