Feb 25

Opening the Box

I’m a key.
I may not look like much, just a little piece of brass with bumps and ridges.
But I am a key, and keys have a secret power.
I can open something.
I don’t know what it is because my owner hasn’t used me yet, but I’m sure that it is something important and significant,
because if it isn’t, why would I be made?
Maybe I open a door or a safe holding the most valuable thing in the world,
or perhaps I even start a car! Imagine all the places I could go if that is my purpose.
I can’t wait to be used!
Right now I am stuck in the palm of my owner.
she grasps me tightly, as if she is afraid she will lose me,
and that would be a disaster.
How could I open something if I’m lost?
No, no, I can’t think like that. I know that my owner will use me,
and I’ll open something special to her!
It is just a little uncomfortable in here between these clammy fingers.
Feb 24

The Sky, Stars, and... Skunks?

The car door slams behind me as I step out onto the driveway.
The brisk air flows around me, flipping my hair this way and that.
“You can go inside, I’ll be there in a second,” I tell Mom as she sees me walk towards the backyard.
She nods, and leaves the outdoor light on. We’ve been through this before.
I have a fascination with the sky.
Whether it be day or night, the sky has always been there,
never left, and never will.
I like looking at the clouds,
At the beautiful warm colors and hues the sun makes on them.
So many marvelous things come from it.
I like the day sky,
With the blue that can’t be replicated anywhere else,
--not even by that wall paint named after it--
With the white, fluffy clouds strewn all around
like someone had a pillow fight and didn't clean up their mess. 
But more than that, I like the night sky.
There is a special kind of quietness, a kind of beauty that few appreciate. 
Feb 24

I Still Remember

I miss you. We might have only had one year together, but you were my best friend.
I wish you didn’t have to move away.
I know we were going to try to keep in touch, but that never works out, does it?
I still remember the last day we were together.
We swam in Lake Champlain, picked up pretty rocks, played Just Dance, and then waited inside while listening to the thunderstorm.
I remember the day I went over to your house, went sledding, and ate chinese food.
In the car, we held our breath for fun to see how long we could hold it.
I’m sorry to tell you, but I cheated.
I remember going outside at night with flashlights to get the sled we accidentally left on the hill,
and I was afraid that we would get eaten by mountain lions. It all seems so silly now.
When you left, it felt like a part of me left. How could it not? You were my best friend.
I still remember the day that you told me you were moving,
Feb 17


Feb 14


What does it mean to be empty?
It means containing nothing, not filled or occupied. 
Some empty things include;
Everything is always filled with something, right?
What about space? You ask. 
Space is empty of everything. 
That's why it's called space. 
I must have the whole universe in my head, then,
because it always feels empty.
Completely void of anything, 
Except a few tiny things floating around,
Insignificant compared to the amount of space they don't occupy. 
I have a universe in my head,
swirling and expanding and completely deprived of anything important. 
I get overwhelmed, 
by all this space.
The pressure builds and builds, 
until I unleash my inner dam of thoughts and ideas 
onto a piece of paper or a sheet of music. 
Usually abstruse and esoteric,
my mind generates a concoction 
of crazy, insane, impossble, and just a little idiotic.
Feb 09


I used to be yellow.
I used to be in line,
following the same path as the rest.
But then I changed.
I found out that I don’t want to be like everyone else.
I am as unique as snowflakes and fingerprints.
I decided that I want to go my own direction.
And become my own color.
I have found that I like it out here.
I can see farther than I did before.
All the other pins can only see those beside them,
but out here,
I can see everything.
They look at me,
glare at me.
laugh at me,
for being different.
They don’t understand
that it is better out here.
All the yellow-headed pins want to be with the in-crowd,
afraid to be original.
They don’t know how easy it is
to just lean out and be who you are.
Feb 01

Unforgotten Days

Every night when she sleeps, she travels back in time.
She goes back to the sleepless summer nights,
sneaking out and meeting up at the field.
They run through the wisps of grass, hand in hand,
the dying dandelions whispering soft songs as they pass,
their laughter reverberating in their souls,
their smiles mimicking the crescent of the moon,
glowing just as brightly.
The abandoned house was in the middle of nowhere,
familiar to both of them as the Vermont trees that line the forest,
the memories as sweet as the maple syrup in the spring.
Every night, she travels back to the time when he was still here,
when he hadn’t been ripped from her hands,
back when he hadn’t been moved across the large expanse of land and sea.
When the sleep pulls her under into its embrace each night,
she is carried through time and space to that place,
to the forgotten barn,
to the unforgotten days gone by unappreciated.
Jan 30

Fishing for a Beautiful Morning

It was a beautiful morning and nothing was wrong.
I watched the morning mist curl over the midsummer blue water, looping and swirling, from the window of the truck as we drove by.
It seemed to be alive, which made this morning all the more magical.
We parked and after the rough hum of the truck turned off, a special silence enveloped us.
It made me feel like we were the only people left in the world, just me and him. I kind of liked it.
Dad and I pulled the canoe out of the bed of our barely-operating, tan 1998 GMC Sierra onto the crunchy gravel of the Lake Fairlee boat launch.
Heaving it to the water, it slid on the water without so much of a splash, some drops flying up onto my legs. The sudden coldness made me shiver and smile.
After we got our poles and gear, we wobbled onto the canoe, tittering and tottering, despite the land a few feet away.
Finally, Dad pushed the ground through the shallow, green water with his oar and we were off.
Jan 23


    My great ancestor---the official relationship title lost over the years---came from France in 1674 to Quebec. His name was Jean D’Aigle. Only twenty-four-years old, he made the biggest decision of his life and chose to pick up his things and move to the New World. He comes from my father’s father side, or my grandpa, who I’ve always been told was French-Canadian, but I have never thought about what that really meant.
    When Jean first came to America, he wanted to be a farmer. He bought his first plot of land for eighty livres, the French currency at the time, which converts to about one hundred and twelve American dollars.