By Jordan Hales Powerful and soft, Disastrous but beautiful. The Snow, is a force. 

By Jordan Hales I’m cozy inside,  When the outside is frigid, Watching fallen Snow. 

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.