By Annika Enkvist A deep crimson stream oozes down the side of the flattened dead tree, seeping into the little nooks and devouring the remaining space suffocated by air. Lightly, a pale liquid splashes against the once haunting crimson. Aquamarine. A warm grey washes over the thin slice of a once mighty tree, taking the shape of a puddle. Mixing the colors together, the wooden stick with strands of hair catches a harsh lime green, dripping the once bright color on the soft fuzzy grey creating this muted, faint, offering. Thus the cycle continues, oozing, dripping, splashing, shaping, until the piece is created.

By Emma Knapp They say the rain washes away sin the running stream carries it away into living water They say fire is the furnace for gold the rising smoke heeds purity from evil  Why then is the ocean at my door  and no fire in my soul

By Micheal Howard Humbled Clouds like the mountains Marching to oblivion Makes a man feel small Death Scared for what comes next Faith in what you can’t control Forward march soldier Firelight Embers getting low Joy and laughter surround me Cherished memories 

By Corinna Cook It starts with the thunk of a probe hitting the frost layer. Then the corer revs up, clangs down. Makes a borehole in the bog. What kind of animal are we, anyway? A kind that walks on surfaces without a compass. Does our best. Does our worst. Wonders at the things-beneath, the depths we can’t get to without making them into surfaces of their own. A kind of animal that squishes around, pulls frozen peat from under the bog then fumbles when cold bolts into our hands, concerned suddenly with etiquette over the ancient underground’s brown chill, its sloppy surprise. 

By Paul Twardock Repetition and persistence are truths in the world. From the automated voice at DMV going “Number 72 now being served at window 12,” to the repetition of a landscape: a valley, then a ridge, then a valley. Or when a bear chases caribou, the caribou run and scatter, the bear misses and sits down, the caribou regroup and continue their march, the bear gets up and starts chasing again. Repetition and persistence. 

By Cheri Germain  branches poking through chain link fences  point at me as i pass by  laughter erupts from their leaves rustled  by whistling wind  echoing through my bones  shaking my fragile sprouting heart  growing longer  twigs snapping through  pushing me farther off the sidewalk into  the street  spindly deciduous fingers twist and tangle  into my hair  tugging me back  damp leaves in the tread of my boots off  the cold wet concrete  scraped unto their deathbed of a welcome  mat 

By Cheri Germain something poetic about the flurry of  leaves that rain down on me  floating on the cold breeze that nearly  takes me off my feet  if i could be whisked away like that  floating fragile on violent currents  freezing rain like slaps to the face  or maybe just a cold caress  walk backwards down the street  if i face away maybe time will follow my  feet and tread backwards  but it is not the direction you face but the  direction you go  turned away blindly  moving forward obliviously into oblivion  forever