By Christopher Smith The harshest wind could not break the barrier of the pine. The cold feel of the air only hinted towards what was on the way. Nature’s way of matching the cold feeling was that of the blue sky. Humans have always associated blue with the cold. We tend to see it more when the cold presents itself, ignoring it the rest of the year.

By Laura Nyman My sister is 14 months older than me, but as kids, strangers would regularly ask if we were twins. Although she has since moved to Washington, we have kept close in our adulthood while trying to be there for each other all the same. Throughout my week, I save specific things for our phone conversations because I know they’ll make her laugh, and she contributes words of older-sibling wisdom in turn. I called her the other day after a rocky week of silence, but once she picked up, I was relieved to hear her answer, “How’d you know?”

By Kelly Aurora Beltane The earthy essence of a bean. Held in a pot. In hot hands. Plants itself on tongue. For a time. I drink and let it sink into my deep channeled nerves, like roots reaching, stabilizing, tapping. Carnivorous coffee steam flower growing open, trapping and consuming my buzzing desire. Sprouted scents condensed against olfactory glands. I stretch toward the sun. You do the same, joe. We both have, before.  As broken down and separated grounds, as new seeds, as those who are just waking.

By Kelly Aurora Beltane The opposite of insipid liquid sipped with lustrous lip against clickity-clack cup on plate, a pinky lift, fingers licked and thumbing through bricks thick of papery page turns, stacks on stacks, no clocks to tick away or take chunks of a day, the squeak of finger pads pulled  across porcelain, prying cookie into pieces to dunk, and crunch and  issolve in cheek. Still, time isn’t still. It swirls under spoon, twirls and teems in steam clouds and questions the left behind leaves.

By Kelly Aurora Beltane This is where we accept direction. To carry us on non-disclosed open road. Hamster-wheel Earth under rims. They spin with nowhere to go. Here. Right here. The map shows no arrival. No place we haven’t been before. No look in the mirror with new eyes. No ice scraper brush with a stranger. We understand this place because our hearts have been broken before. On the side of a goodbye. A soft shoulder to cry away into canyons of candor. Here. Left here, dear. Turn here. We are pointing to glass, to paper, to each other.

Martin Bargo The moonless night invited the tour bus to break down three miles before Boeung Trakoun. Wielding a paper map and a compass, after some finger measurements, we decided to leave the road and walk across the eerily quiet forest. “Straight northbound, we’re almost there,” Arkadiusz promised. “You and your shortcuts!” I replied, frowning in the dark.  A minute later, we reached town. While jumping over the guardrail, an astonished group of locals stared at us, jaws dropped, some grabbing their heads. “Did you walk through there?” asked one of them in perfect English. Hesitantly, we both nodded. “You just crossed a World War II minefield.”

Jen Erickson For those who feel the imbalance of their world in contrast to another’s: The variance in the world’s weight does not allow for balance. It’s impossible. When the weight has thrown you to the ground and you look around and see others standing, it does not mean that they don’t feel the imbalance. But it may signal a need to rest—to breathe. Because when you stand, you will feel the ambivalence once more. Read the news, but also read your heart and recognize the weight it carries. Pause today to marvel. Not to forget, but to remember.

Joy Saugier Dark highway at night  No headlights other than mine Ocean on my left.

Beth King The harvest moon has just bestowed itself upon the dark night sky, the first time we’ve seen our moon since the season of the midnight sun. Effortlessly, I find myself in the dirt, damp from the first frost. The air smells of highbush cranberries. In the morning, the sun penetrates your cheeks like a goodbye kiss. The potatoes—purple, yellow, red—loosen like gold from the ground. I pull the stems, shake, one, two, three—even the little ones count. We’ll eat them all year, give them to friends. Oh, I’ll miss when harvest time ends.

By Chaun Ballard My wife is in the kitchen following her mother’s Rhubarb Dessert recipe, which, on paper, (the recipe) is simply titled “Rhubarb Dessert,” which, we figure, creates a dilemma if we are tasked to bring a dessert to a gathering and someone asks us, “What are you bringing to the gathering?” If we respond, “Rhubarb Dessert,” which is its name, naturally, they will come back with “What kind of rhubarb dessert?” to which we will have to clarify, “‘Rhubarb Dessert’ is its name.” This may explain why no one names their dog “What,” because, inevitably, someone will ask “What is your dog’s name?” and you must respond.