I dreamed

I was a bird

in an open hayfield,

flying through 

playfully, 

never stopping to notice

that the sun was setting.

The warmth of the day faded,

ever so slowly. 

I flew through leisurely,

the smell of freshly cut hay and late summer filling the air,

the peepers beginning to chirp, 

and I stayed.

It would be much too late

before I finally noticed

that the sun had gone

and with it, 

the warmth and comfort of a summer's day.

To be a person in the world,

is often to be this bird. 

Enjoy the warmth of the summer sun,

but notice when it's fading away.

Every spring, we throw ourselves

unceremoniously into the birthing world, abandon

all remnants of the cold dark snow. We are sun-drunk

and terribly deprived. We give little shrieks

of joy when the croci appear at the edge of the woods,

much as we did when the snowflakes first began to fall, the cyclical

nature of the world giving us just enough time to forget.

We race each other out the school doors,

tumbling out onto the bright pavement in our haste

to be the first one to see the clear blue sky.

Our jackets lay       abandoned on their hooks. The sun is out;

we are once again wild things. And everyone else

in the state, it seems, has had the same thought -

the sidewalks are blooming with children

who stare awestruck at the petals sprouting in the concrete cracks,

elders who sit on porches and wave hello

to every sort of creature passing by. The earth smells of gladness 

and rain. The birdsong in the trees is incessant; crows seem to float

in the space between the trees and the wispy white clouds;

the deep sweet freshness of the new-made air

leaves us tipsy at street corners, gulping and desperate for more. 

A poet

kneels in the grass in her rollerblades, palms up to the bright bright sky.

She knows the day is ending. She drinks in,

endlessly, the impermanence of warmth. The breeze is shifting,

bringing cooler scents to the horizon, slowing,

carrying with it always the unwanted passage of time.

But for now it is sunny, and beautiful, and blue,

and as it is every spring,

there will be another day.

Once upon a time,

there was a cabin.

It was not big,

it was not grand,

but it was ours.

Our great-grandparents built it so many years ago,

they wanted a cabin that would be passed down for generations.

It only made it to us.

Our older relatives would like to sell it soon,

we do not have much time.

It will be gone before we know it.

No more swimming in the pond, 

or fishing off the dock.

No more squeaky spring door,

or late-night kayaks.

The Cabin will be gone.

No more towels drying on the porch,

or sunsets watched from the edge of the water.

No more exploring the forest,

or calling the loons that live in the pond.

The Cabin will be gone. 

No more games of cards played on the pull-out couch,

or simply sitting on the forest floor.

No more reading in the lofts,

or family board games played when the sun has long since set.

The memories are fading fast.

Two summers ago,

we went to the Cabin for what may be the last time. 

I didn't know.

There are so many things I wish I had done,

because I didn't know that

the Cabin will be gone.

"Dear Gretchen (ctrl c, ctrl v)

Thank you for applying to [college]. 

After careful review of your application (after skimming your test scores and seeing none), we are unable to offer you admission for Fall 2026 at this time, however, we invite you to opt into our waitlist (your application wasn't good enough, but it wasn't the worst, so you're thrown into the middle category). 

[College] receives more applications from highly qualified applicants than we can accommodate, but your application demonstrated great promise (you didn't provide numbers for us to crunch, so we don't actually know what was in your application) and, if space becomes available, we may be able to offer you admission from the waitlist (we don't want you to attend, but to soften the blow, we'll glance at your application again and let you know much too late and after you've committed to another school). 

Please be aware that opting in to the waitlist does not guarantee you will receive an offer of admission (this is your rejection letter).

For those who opt in, we will release our final decision through your Applicant Portal by the end of summer (if you're really desperate, we'll throw you a bone right when you're settled on another decision. Have fun panicking). Visit the Frequently Asked Questions page on the Applicant Portal for more information (please don't ask questions, as you are not an admitted student).

Thank you again for your application and interest in [college] (we have already forgotten who you are. Good day)."

On the first warm night of spring

I lie on my bed with my window open

The cool breeze skates over my skin

Leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake

They are quickly aided by the warm air

The moonlight splashes over my room

As the last of the color is squeezed from the sky

A false sense of comfort falls over me

As the sounds of the rushing creek

Slowly lull me to sleep

There is nothing wrong with

wearing ribbons in your hair and

twirling in your plaid uniform skirt and

dressing like a tomboy sometimes and

refusing to let anyone tell you not to

wear your heart on your sleeve;

nothing wrong with scars and

sparkly eyeshadow and

throwing a football in the backyard;

nothing wrong with changing your mind and

changing styles and

who you think you are, acting

slightly different when you wear khakis 

instead of a skirt to school;

you're

still you, and

you'll always wear it

on your sleeve.