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Emma Peterson Aug 13
I looked out my window
On a dark April evening
And my heart lifted up.

Had bloomed.

Had pushed through the dirt without any sun
Had lasted the winter without any care.
The smallest yellow *****
Had bloomed

On its own
And it was ok.
And I was ok.
And we would both be ok.
Austyn Taylor Jun 14
We built this house. We eat watermelon on the floor, spitting seeds across a shooting range measured by the planks in the floor.

We built this house. We spill barbeque sauce while trying to make pizza and lick it from each other like wild animals, we are free.

We built this house. We drink our coffee cold. We’re too busy looking at each other to drink it hot. I guess we’re admiring the temperature of each other instead.

We built this house. My eyes are the color of the garden you gave me, watered by the April showers of tough times. Flowers come in spring.

We built this house. Your eyes fell from the stars, your dreams stayed there, never to come back down.

We built this house. We dance in our underwear as we pack away our scars, the scars that don’t scream,

we can walk away from this quietly.

We have never loved each other more than this moment, but now this moment has passed. We sit across from each other in more April showers, flowers come in spring. We sit on the wrong sides of the table. Packing our scars into separate boxes, they scream. We keep them quiet.

If Christ can move stone to forgive our sins, why can’t we?

Rip open the scars that scream, pack them with the dirt of a grave, you are ready to let them die. You are ready to plant seeds. Flowers come in spring. We don’t wait for healing to find us. We have risen from the ground and better **** well act like it. You water flowers, not leave. Regrowth happens in spring.
We are spring.
We are spring.

We built this house.
Ennis S May 14
First days of spring
How many poems have been written about you?
Could you count them on all your fingers and toes
finally free from wool socks
or on your highway medians’ flower buds
barely visible from the rolled-down windows of passing cars?

Let me add one more set of words--
images of a Saturday afternoon in April
cats snoring
pressed against sun-dappled window screens
and daffodils adorning
even the smallest patches of earth
between city streets and sidewalks

And most of all
that sublime knowledge
a proof of concept
that bulbs become blossoms
that winter layers will be shed.

The things I thought were dead and rotting
were only dormant for a season.
The chill of winter--which will come back--
fades for now, replaced by milder breezes.

The dull walk to my parked car
a trudge that seemed so long and dreary
is now a brief journey
dotted with colors and  
full of the splendor of living things.
martha May 11
I inhabit my silent cave with soft ease
welcome it's embrace
to mould its temporary shell
encased around my shape
leaks seep through with the ceiling cracks
from too many layers of alabaster

hide buckets and bowls inconspicuous
the lakes dare reflect their hits and misses
the floor a constant magma
and the sky too low to stretch steps on a spine

tracking the navigation of a falling sliver
always seemed so simple
now all they do is pool
on barren cheeked horizons
tips of icebergs
on frozen stranger
Lilli Sutton May 9
Redbud trees bleeding at the side of the road.
Must be almost May – the air is humid
and insects rise up out of the grass.
My steps move like a giant.
Every word I speak is the newest sound
in the universe, for a moment.
Or it’s too much pressure – I want to fold up
and be silent for a while. Say my solemn goodbyes
to the last two years and let go.
Maybe I’ll hibernate in the summertime
and come out in the cold. Or I’ll be like a firefly –
lighting up in the battlefields in June,  
synchronize my glow in the Smokey Mountains.
Comfort in the sameness – we all are just blinking,
a figment in the pages. When I write, the only thing
I want to say is: I was here. I was alive. I was happy.
Lilli Sutton May 9
Yesterday was so good
that I forgot to write.
Even with the heavy gray clouds,
the threat of tornadoes,
and the skies that had already opened
when I left oceanography,
so I got soaked on the walk
back to my car. It’s spring again
and that’s all that really matters.
I talked to Carter on the phone
in the morning, about robots
in grocery stores and how
this is probably the beginning
of a slow replacement and one day,
we’ll have no use for humans anymore.
Maybe that just means we’ll finally
be able to do the things we want again.
I want to lay in the grass
like we did last Tuesday, in between
obligations, just to feel the sun.
Even on the cloudy days (and that’s all
there ever seems to be now) –
I don’t ever want to be alone,
and I don’t want to be anything but warm.
I still can’t sleep during thunderstorms –
I have to stay up with the light on,
until the lightning is over. But I don’t mind
having my bed beside the window –
sometimes the wind comes in, or the rain,
and I let it.
April showers bring May flowers
They say, they've said for ages gone
But what when April's dry as bones
Parched and bleached by desert suns
And May, her lover, weeps and groans
And the flowers blossom anyway?
She awoke in the clouds
bright, light, and ethereal.
her cheeks the color of...

The April breaking dawn -
Shea Apr 24
And as the room begins to brighten
I'm enlightened by a soft touch
of bones easily dislocatable
And sensitive to touch
And even though those bones slip
From their holes
The floor holds them before me
So delicate and worn
I've sworn that I'll swallow my disease
Digest it, spit it up before you have
To see it acting up
But today was different
You watched my ears close and head shake
With blood down my nose
Sweat on my clothes
From holding it back.
I'm sorry you had to see it
See it act up.
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