You'd lived through your autumn before 

I met you. 

Your feet rustling faded leaves; 

your hand gracing ancient barks; 

your eyes learning the name of clouds I 

never got to learn. 

You left before my own season changed; you 

entered your winter just 

as I met you. 

And there you stand, with

your skin glistening under the crest of

hailfallen skies;

your hair, hoar with ice, as silky as a spider's web;

and you, oh my goodness you-

your glow under the icy lights; you, 

melting the snow, moving

towards the spring.

But still, still, I am

far behind you.

I began in autumn after 

I met you.

Colored in orange hues, I

see the leaves fall behind me, falling in my shadow; I

breathe in, the air dampening my lungs; I

watch you, I watch your dimmed light, distant.

And as I began,

I missed a you I never knew.

1. i do not believe in miracles.
2. i encourage people to be optimistic. you never know what lies ahead.
3. i am nearly thirteen years old and adults tell me every day i was born to be a poet. i guess i didn't have time to choose.
4. somebody writes all the fortune cookies.
5. i wonder what they think about when they go to sleep, when they wake up. i wonder if they taste the future on the wind.
6. i write poetry in purple pen and when it runs out of ink i use blue and when that too recedes into nothingness i suppose i'll have to stop altogether.
7. poets contain all the secrets to the universe in their left pinky finger, the one that drags softly across the page. it comes natural & crooked like something as yet unformed.
8. alliteration is the enemy of springtime rain.
9. i wonder if it's god.
10. if you run headlong into the meadows in late july beware of faeries lurking in the long grass. they give you nectar from the intoxicated bees and you may never come out alive.
11. there is something terribly appealing about a full choir, dressed entirely in black and white. the sound they make is like when hummingbirds arise.
12. i wonder what moses thought when the sea at first did not part. i would have fallen upon my knees, begging despite all heroic claims, and every ounce of faith in me would have turned at once to lead.
13. actually upon reflection i would not have been moses at all.
14. i write my name on both sides of the worksheet i am given in class, both places where it says NAME: DATE: as if to prove my existence not once but twice.
15. i absolutely believe in miracles.
16. thunderstorms on tin roofs at camp are the secret lullaby of nature - i am a small thing in a steadily rattling world & my only option is to go along.
17. the best friends are the ones you can lay on the trampoline with in the growing dark and not have to worry about what happens if it rains.
18. and also the ones you roll down hills with in the first heat of spring, shrieking & tumbling headfirst into the green.
19. i use the same words every time i write a poem because at some point the dictionary will end and i can't bear the thought of running out.
20. rey in spanish means king & the only metaphors i can think of for that go something along the lines of sunshine, brightness, golden ray. 
21. though i know kings make everything take the sharp black ways.
22. and the only thing i know for certain is that i know nothing
23. & that if we're looking for anything to change, 
    we can start simply by saying today.

You say we lived happily during the war 

as if it was a sin 

As if, in the heat and fire of the end, we 

are not to relish in the good 

That, when the only thing we can do is protest, 

our protests will never be enough 

That, when the world is always at war with itself,

We are never allowed to actually live 

To live through this endless cycle

To live as part of humanity

Does it mean we are not allowed to cherish 

the little luxuries that seem to be a kind of

Mercy

That, because our species is violent, we are not 

afforded kindness?

But, forgive me if you must, what are we supposed to do

when around our bed, the world is falling

Each invisible house after the next

should we not look to the sunrise?

Lie in bed, prepare for the coming day

when in these great streets of money

It is all we can do

Must we deprive ourselves of light

because somewhere else, the sky is darker?

So yes, I lived happily during the war

I will not deny myself the chance to

avoid falling with them

["We Lived Happily During the War"]

Green pastures. Lengths of decaying wooden fence. A lone bird, sitting in the field. These pass outside, framed by the train’s window in a way that makes it resemble a film strip. Still, yet in motion. Almost like time, in a way. Always moving forward, yet forever carved in stone.

        Another stretch of grass flies by the window, green and yellowed, alive and slowly being drained of life. Blink and you miss it. It is hard enough to see in the early morning light.

        The flashes dredge up a memory. Like walking through a tall grass field, moving forward in time, blind to what’s below you until you run into it.

        It must have been in middle school. My hands, smaller than they are now, pick at the dry grass of the school’s PE field. I can feel the rage boiling under my skin then, tinting the memory red. But the longer I linger, I can feel something darker. Something that turns the red to purple, deep and lonely, that runs hot through my body.

        The knob turns, rewinds the film.

        “Only three to a group. Someone has to leave.” The PE teacher, frisbees under her arm. We are supposed to practice in small groups.

        Natalie, Lindsey, and Ava giggle together in our criss-cross single file line, with me in the back. They point at each other like it's a joke, voting each other out of the line.

        “You go, Ava!”

        “No!” she cries, rolling back on her tailbone to hug her knees. “I don’t wanna. You go instead.”

        “Why me?”

        Their heads turn back, almost in slow motion, like I can see it coming. In my memory, their faces blur into one. Even though I’ve known one of them for years, elementary school falls away like sand between my fingers in the face of a whole new world. Now they share the same oblivious, expectant face, unfazed by casting someone off. Unfazed by the hurt they have the power to cause.

        It's a sunny day. Is it the start of a sunburn or the anger sizzling under my skin? We ran laps earlier. Is it exhaustion or rage that causes my hands to tremble?

        I lift my hand from the train table and examine my nails. It has been too long since I cut them. The orange paint is slowly moving away from the cuticle.

        The vibrant color plucks up something else, lost in the tall grass of time.

        I stalk over to a mostly vacant group and sit. A storm cloud hangs over the lone boy there. He is already in the field, chucking a bright orange frisbee with all his might toward a cone. I think that he seems to have his own frustration. Good, says the voice in my head. Misery loves company.

        I wait my turn. Pull at the grass with my small hands. Can’t stop thinking about what just happened. Rip out the grass to mimic the feeling of my own skin being pulled back, being left stranded and vulnerable and alone. To take it out on something without the consequences.

        The boy in the field faces me, frisbee in hand. He is far enough away that I can’t make out his expression. He rotates his body to the side, then undos the motion, elbow extending outward, hand following through.

        A flash of orange. Pain and heat explode under my right eye, on my cheekbone. My hand flies to my face. It already feels tender.

        “Are you okay? Sorry,” he says when he approaches. But he still sounds angry. Still looks angry.

        “I’m fine.”

        Later, after the bell has rung, after I’ve changed back into uniform, I’m washing my hands in the locker room bathroom.

        I look into the mirror, scratched and cracked at places. I hope it doesn’t bruise. I don’t want to explain it later, don’t want to think about it. Don’t want to show the weakness I feel.

        Into the bathroom comes Natalie, Lindsey, and Ava. I can feel fissures giving into the pressure behind the wall. My hands tremble as I pump soap onto my palms. I bite my lip as I begin to cry.

        “Are you okay?” one of them asks. I’m not sure who it is. I can’t make myself look. I lower my head and try not to let out any sound.

        I can feel them looking at each other. I can feel the awkwardness before they unanimously decide to leave. I can feel the emptiness around me when they do.

        So this is what hurt feels like. This is the power people hold. For the moment, I can’t stand the sight of their faces. Like pressing a hot branding iron into my skin. It's just PE, but it's so much more. 

        For the moment, I think I hate them. I think I hate that all three of them chose me, that all three of them saw me as the weak link. I think I hate the boy, for his carelessness and for taking his anger out on me. I think I hate myself, for not making better friends, stronger connections.

        The push faucet turns off, and I am left with my head bowed over the sink, silently crying.

        I see myself in the reflection of the train’s window, made from the rising sun. I lift my hand to my cheekbone. It never did bruise, so there was never a story to tell. But bruises don’t always manifest on the surface.

        I sigh, resting my forehead on the window. The memories don’t hurt as much anymore. They are just a light pinprick on the skin, an uncomfortable sensation.

        More dashings of civilizations fly by the window. A small ramshackle barn. A far off stable, where I can see the flick of a horse’s tail.

        The train soon grinds to a halt. I feel the brakes lurching beneath the body of the train as I make my way to the front. The doors open, and an employee hangs off the side, wishing travelers a safe trip as they step out onto the platform.

        I take a deep breath. It’s a whole new world out there. I exhale, telling myself what I should have told myself when I was younger: Be strong.

I do not know why I yearn. 

Why I sing like a mourning dove on a wire, 

crying softly for her lover to come. 

Why I droop like the willow, 

her leaves hanging down by the pond, 

weeping for something unknown. 

I don't understand why I sob, 

cries screaming like sirens in the night, 

rushing to save a losing soul 

or why I back away from love, 

like a riptide in the sea, 

pulling its water away from the shore. 

Why am I like this when love can cause beauty, 

can cause one to bloom like a flower? 

I stay waiting to bloom in spring, 

locked in an eternal winter, 

though deep in my mind, 

I'm the one who holds the key. 

I always come back to

the synchrony I find in the wild 

The insignificance I feel

when the rain pours down

Giving breath to growth

The birds are all singing, differently

from one another

but they are together all the same: chaotic in the perfect way

that only they can be,

a choir conducted singularly by the earth that tilts towards the sun each spring.

One of those birds could fall to the ground in the middle of the forest

and it would leave your life unchanged

yet at the same time, it holds all the importance in the world

as it gives rise to something beautiful, a legacy that will continue and go on

Life is a cycle, they say, and this is true- yet it is also something that rises and falls, and brings love and grief, and is wholly a journey worth walking.

I need no other bible than the wild,

and crave no feeling more than the spring rain upon my face.