An app on my phone says they’ll be snow tonight - we can expect .2 inches in New Haven. I can’t wait because where I come from snow is an event.

In Georgia, the mere suggestion of a snowflake in a weather report results in businesses closing, the freeway being blocked-off, and the entire city being evacuated.

Reports of “snow” can provoke vicious, panic shopping for essentials, like Totino's Triple-Meat-Pizza-Rolls - known for keeping teenagers alive in weather-pocalypses.

As the snowflake is tracked-in by radar, wooden furniture is chopped up for strategic placement by the fireplace and beloved family pets are evaluated for their fur and nutritional values. Has Grandma really been pulling her weight lately?

These New Englanders seem completely nonplussed by snow, like republicans facing unnecessary death or the loss of American democracy. I think I’m going to video this.

Interesting fact: Snow actually falls from the sky. I know, it’s terrifying

Lisa, Leong and I were supposed to eat at a sushi place called “Bow Wow.” Lisa and I were coming back from our last class. I covered my face with the back of my hand and yawned as we reached the quad. Lisa put her phone in her jacket pocket and said, “She isn’t answering, I’ll go get her.” I nodded and gave her my backpack (we’re all suitemates).

I sat down, cross legged, under a (Japanese maple?) tree, arranging my skirt - the tree had shed most of its leaves, since I’d met it in September. A drift of papery bronze leaves spread out in all directions.

A breeze delicately swayed the tree branches, making flickering patterns of light in the shade. I went from sitting to lying down in the grass, angling for the most of the limited shade. The sky was subtly beginning to darken, as if an Instagram filter on the scene was being tweaked.

How many seasons has this tree observed, I wondered, with all the embellishments those brought - sun, rain, stars, rainbows and flickering, ever changing moons. ​​All from within the limited, open sky frame of the quad. A tree has to be patient - and tough - I thought, there’s no rescue from the New England elements.

The whistling breeze seemed like music and the tree began to dance for me - its branches became waving arms, its leaves making jazz hands - I laughed and clapped. It made a twisting bow at the waist, like a performer.

I woke up when I heard Lisa say, “‘Here she is!” - as if I’d been lost.

It's that time of the Patriot's year
Postseason playoff games are in full gear
The road to the Superbowl, I cheer
But not for the big, bad grissly bear
That takes every opponent's fate without fear
That's right the big bad bear without peer
I'm snickering the Patriot's to cry a tear
Nothing would make me so happier, I swear
Fricken, dicken, bitchen Patriots beware
To see another Bostonian tea party, I glare
I do show respect at the Patriot's lair
Brady and Belicheck what a podded pair
Steady, stoic and simulcast, condescending I declare
You see a Patriots playoff loss is so rare
Their team profile is beyond compare
A well oiled machine that wear
Goliath close over David with regular fare
The road to this year's Superbowl Sunday, I say a prayer
That the other teams flag is flying patriotically in the air

Logan Robertson

1/11/2019

Begin of warm weather
And the
Start of baseball, the count down starts;
Each day it gets closer to Opening Day.
Baseball season is the best season!
And I love watching my
Love play while I keep score, official!
Let's go Red Sox!!

The thunder clashed on the dreary day
And the house became a cave
Every light was off in sight
And our shadows became our slaves

The streets were empty with doom
As we locked ourselves in a room
And the shutters couldn’t be saved

But as we watched our home be torn
By the dreadful New England storm
We knew we had to be brave

It's six a.m., and I'm awake before the sun. I shouldn't be surprised. Couple things about New England...early darkness, late sunrise, and all the leaves turn the loneliest shades on the rainbow, and something about sort of just makes your bones feel cold. You see your breath hang and contort in the air while you sit in the motionless tomb you've grown affectionally refer to as home. That loneliness I mentioned earlier sets up a permanent residence, as well. It locks on to you, like some sort of symbiont. You'll feel lonely even in entire rooms full of people who also feel lonely in entire rooms full of people who also feel lonely. The sadness is intoxicating. The only thing colder than the outside temperature becomes the temperature of your heart. It's six a.m., and I'm awake before the sun. I have this intense combination of utter apathy, white hot rage, and despondency. At least the rage keeps me warm at night. It's the only thing that combats the incompacitating loneliness. Even your own reflection begins to lie and play tricks on you. The thing about New England, about these small hilltowns in Western Massachusetts, is that they're full of a few different types of people. People who stay and wanna stay, people who are going to leave and never come back, people who are going to leave but never do, and the people who leave and do come back. Out of those four people, I promise you, none of them want to be here. They would like to be anywhere but here, even the one's who wanna stay. It's not beautiful to us, anymore, these falltime changes, the winter wonderland that follows it. The debilitating conditions become hazardous to the essence of the lives we pretend we have. Don't be fooled; no one wants to be here, just some are on deeper levels than others about it.

If I must die,
Let it be as a leaf does in autumn.
A brilliant flash of color
Gentle drifting to the ground.
Oh, let me die as a leaf does
When the mornings are cool
And the air is crisp.
Let me dance upon the breeze
Let me rest upon the pavement.
If I must die,
Let it as a leaf does in autumn
Fading away
Before the cold of winter.

i've had a share of
new england boys,
tall,
with long legs
that tangled with mine,
long hair
that loved to be played with,
lips that smiled
and kissed me a hundred times
after smoking a joint,
arms
that never held tightly enough,
and words,
oh their words,
were oh so sweet,
but oh, so unreal.
a promise of happy endings
that never came true.
so i find myself
running away from these
new england boys.

I am New England cold
a snowstorm covered in the red dirt of the american southwest
a lurking cold tugs at the corners of showing and telling.

Expression is the enemy

I am broken parts
fastened with unkept promises,
damaged by addiction
and frayed strings of a family

To others concealed,  
a cement mask of apathy
affixed to the flushed cheeks
of a child betrayed

Privately I drown
in the quiet
of a hollow home,
these phrases with no meaning
not enough to
fill the space

Deafening silence between people
words ejected from spitting mouths
words falling on indifferent ears

I am the New England cold
a searing heat  burning through
the black coal of veiled eyes and padlocked mouths  
a jaded pulse seeping through
the cracks in my armour