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 

By Grace Shultz Have you ever thought, maybe I shouldn’t do this?   Have you ever thought, maybe I should reevaluate?   Stop doing that, decide and move on.   Convince yourself that you aren’t worth the convo,   Don’t bring up the emotional needs of yourself   Because that’s not what hot girls do   And you want to be a hot girl  Void of everything that makes you you  Decorate your shell of a body with the costume of another  Bow to the golden calf and remember to   Equate you value to the opinions of others  Because that is what a hot girl would do.  

By Grace Shultz I remember a time when we were strangers  Two kids, with an inherent sports rivalry  And desire to create connection with others  Quick friends   The inbetween was exciting and I cherish it so  The after, well, I’m still surprised that it’s the now  And, if I cannot return to the inbetween,  Then I wish to return to the time when we were strangers  When sitting in the same room meant nothing  Coexisting without harming the other  Comfortable strangers with no middle  Remembering in only my mind  That time of our inbetween  

By Shanice Lawton You were my mom because you raised me and loved me as your own. You didn’t birth me, but they couldn’t tell the difference to people who didn’t know us. I always hoped you heal, but that wasn’t the plan, at least not here on earth. The person I’m today is because of you. You’re gone now, and they’ve forgotten me. I told you years ago that if you left, people would forget me. Guess what? They did, but it’s okay because our memories will forever be in my heart.

By Olivia Garrison Everything is so busy. The world is a lively blur of fast cars and turbulent people. It takes everything I have in me to keep my eyes straight ahead of me. Breathe. In. Out. It feels overwhelming. Am I the only one? I know what I need to do. I take my badge. The plastic material is clipped to my navy scrub top. A beep, then a gush of air and the double doors swing open. The entrance to the Intensive Care Unit where I work is in commotion as always. There is much work to be done. Focus.  

By Zoe May I’d like to tell you about my favorite weather. More accurately, I’d like you to smell my favorite weather. After three months of blistering heat, there will be a morning that smells different. It will smell like the first breeze of cool wind to tickle your skin. It will smell like the nightly dew gathered on perennial flower petals signaling the end of its beauty. It will smell like a tease of moisture after a season of fire. Because when you smell this drop off temperature, just a couple of degrees, it’s the first smell that summer will cease.