Mar 27
Laurel Marshia's picture

Guardians of Childhood

I’ve always felt some kind of connection to trees. I think this comes from my upbringing in Chelsea, learning to love the land from my parents and grandparents. But I think part of this comes from what a tree represents to me. The old silver maple tree in our backyard is unwavering, throwing its shade onto the green grass and dropping its colorful leaves on our deck in the fall. The perfectly straight, slender maple behind the woodshed is youthful compared to the rest; its strong roots allow it to grow on a slope, towering over and protecting our house. The evergreen trees that stood proudly behind our swing set are forever landmarks in photographs of our house over the years. Although they are now just stumps, they still hold the magic placed in them when my grandfather planted them and nurtured their growth. The old apple tree will forever be a testament to the childhoods of my siblings and me.
Nov 22
Laurel Marshia's picture

A Society of Glass


Trying not to offend anyone in today’s society is like walking on a thin sheet of glass.

One moment you’re fine, and the next

You are falling through, landing on sharp shards of regret and guilt.

Skirting around beliefs, wishes and expectations cautiously,

Like you would around a shattered window pane.
It makes you wonder,

What if the world was less fragile?

What if that thin sheet of glass was more forgiving?

Can’t there be more room for a gentle understanding,

Rather than immediately becoming offended at what is sometimes a simple misconception?
Maybe the problem isn’t the glass we break, but the glass we make.

The panels we surround ourselves with to separate ourselves from everyone else.

There is glass we should break,

The crystal towers of hierarchy we rely on in order to justify our actions.
Nov 11
Laurel Marshia's picture

Falling Into the Pages



I think you’re most yourself when you’re reading.

An open book clutched in your tiny seven year old hands.

Curled in a chair or lying on the floor, your bright blue eyes move quickly across each page, occasionally stopping to absorb a picture.
Sometimes your little lips move, sounding out a difficult word.

Pages turn fast but as soon as one book is closed, another is opened.

Sometimes you read out loud, stumbling on a trick word

A little finger might poke a word on the page as if to put it in it’s place

Your brow might furrow, but you won’t ask for help,

determined to discover it yourself.
Books have evolved, from only pictures to only words,

but that doesn’t seem to be a problem for you.

Instead, your mind generates the picture for you,

each word a puzzle piece in the image.
Every week, a stack of “new” books comes home from library.