Echos of Admonishments

By: Isabella Lazzara 

A flower resides in the middle of a field, 

It’s delicate petals quivering from the passage of time. 

Beside it, a tree remains, its bark worn by innumerable winds, its branches etched by storms unknown. 

Both remain bound, as the seasons pass each year 

Spring’s tender warmth 

Summer’s fierce blaze, 

Autumn’s soft decay, and winter’s weight. 

They endure the same sun’s burning gaze, 

share the quiet wonder of the same cold moon, and wish upon the same shooting star. For something beyond the tangled roots that conceal them. 

The flower, frail yet wise, 

wished no more for the trees worn down apologies 

and the tree to not be tied down to his strong ideologies. 

For each one is a sigh, worn thin by repetition, and false dawns. 

A melody of regret that never finds its end. 

They dwell intertwined 

rooted in the same field. 

The flower unable to detach from perspicacity 

The tree dreams of breaking free from the weight of his own beliefs, Of shedding the thick bark of rigid certainty. 

The tree is unable to escape from his thoughts. They surround him like a sea of crows. Yet the flower knows the truth hidden beneath the soil, and the tree’s deceptive strength. 

For his thwarted roots stretch deep. 

Leaving no space for the fragile threads of her own dreams. 

Here, in the stillness of the field, they tarry.

Not by choice, but by the cruel wisdom of the earth— 

A flower, a tree, 

Both yearning for the sky, 

But anchored in each other’s shadow. 

The Haze of a Young Girl’s Gaze

By: Meredith Gilbert 

A small child peers over the fence to the yard next door,

An adult grieves their youth with heartfelt sympathy. 

The grass reaches for the sun's rays, 

despite the landscaper with cracked knuckles.

But the sunshine fills the air with mother’s smell

and holding dad's calloused pinky finger. 

Keep moving, never stop, it was all meant for you. 

The deep brown eyes of the moon watch you grow up,

But the flush in my face comes from the constellations. 

Brown eyed girl and sunshine's touch, 

The waves kneel to Orion's three. 

As I look over the fence, 

I meet the gaze of myself as a young girl. 

I tell her, “You are golden, 

Freckled with beauty, 

My star, 

A Tough Pill to Swallow

By: Zara Smith

I never really understood

the people who would say,

I love you so much it hurts.

I never comprehended

that complex dialectic.

It was quite unimaginable to me,

to my soul

without its other half,

to grasp the concept

of the two most intense opposites.

I never really could empathize

with what they all were saying

that is,

until I fell in love with you.

Fireplace

By: Sophia Gordon 

Love is a funny thing. 

It has no doors or windows. 

It has no structure or bones. 

There are loves like bonfires, turbulent and untamed. 

Some are like matches, a spark that can dwindle down quickly, leaving the match frayed and thin. 

But fireplaces feel like a space to come home to. 

They don’t require taming, rather roll a slow and steady burn. 

I picture blankets and warm lemon tea. 

I picture my grandparents telling stories, recollecting the memories of their first kiss on the doorstep of my grandma’s North Carolina home. 

I picture soft music and the soft glimmer of flames. 

I picture you. 

And when I picture home, I picture you. 

I picture windows and sunrooms where morning light creeps into the cracks of the wood floor. I picture soft pillows and sleepy eyes. 

I picture magnolia trees and climbing branches with mud covered knees. I picture you. 

I hope you’ll see that through my closed doors, there are windows where my sun peaks through. When clouds emerge, I sit on the worn leather couch, soft from the people who came through that North Carolina house to tell stories and laugh in their bellies. 

I hope that one day, I’ll have my own house with windows and fireplaces. I hope that when the light creeps in, I’ll sit on that linen chair and doze off to the sound of wind chimes. 

I hope that I’ll sit by my own fireplace, and watch the flames glitter. 

And I hope most of all, that I’ll do it with you. 

Because when I picture love, I picture you.

If I Knew What I Knew Then

By: Alison Amarain

If I knew how my life would be would be would I even try

Would I have spent all that time studying for the minor I won’t use

Would I have made the friends who would betray me

Would I date the guys that were bad for me

Would I go to those parties with people I’ll never see again

Would I go on the trips that ruined

Would I do anything to change my present?

If I knew how my life would be would I like it

Would I hate who I became

Would I be proud of my accomplishments

Would I even be me without all previous failures

Would I learn or make the same mistakes

Surround myself with the poisonous people who haunt me

If I knew how my life would be it would it even help me

Would the future even be able to change my past

Should it?

What person would I become if I knew everything without experiencing it

Would I even recognize myself

Would I have the passion inside me

Would I have the same hobbies

Ignorance is bliss and knowledge is power

But sometimes you need to experience to grow