Nature’s Symphony

She led me into the darkness, An angel cloaked in light. As crickets sang a sweet lullaby, And the brook babbled back.

The forest beckoned her forwards When it usually turned me away. Come forth, come forth, it whispered, As its branches gracefully swayed.

She danced in meadows at twilight, Tiny clovers braided in her hair, Twirling above the darkened Earth, Her feet barely skimming the ground.

When she leapt, she seemed to reach the sky, A silver glow cupped in her palm, Where her only friends were fireflies And her home among the stars.

Despite the light years separating them, They smiled on her too, As they waltzed to nature’s symphony, Their distance hidden by the dark.

Sally Jamrog ’23

Rhapsody (!)

That purple lace: the one with the embroidered pansies tucked into your plaited crown, braided amongst the heads of buttercups, honeysuckle, and dandelions, long wondered about and long imagined, until the day I felt it between my fingertips, the feeling of weaving something precious to you through the loom of my knuckles (over, under, over, under) now known and cherished. I can now revise my fantasy (pansies, not daisies!), my mind reeling in circles, your mouth undoing mine.

Side Effects

what was I saying?

oh yes— of course, it’s not you, I know, I know. it’s what you represent: the non-consensual innuendo I’ve installed to replace that boy I never liked with a man who meets my standards. still, I sit with you, and I shake, shake like I do touching that rock in the woods, because I can’t bear to be near a being of such unbridled ability. how can I, weak little boy, face the very face of love? of that which is forbidden? that face shows no motion. but surely the presence of such power has surpassed passion. truly you are beyond me, and every moment of failed comprehension pushes you further towards ascendancy.

I know that’s not you, you’re not god, and I don’t care. actually, the reminders of your mortality stimulate me, turn me on, prove my point. for surely there is no greater being than an eros who has not done his laundry in a month. I want to deny this the label of ‘objectification,’ and I am very good at denying what I do not wish to be true. therefore, this is love: every moment spent assessing my assignments of being and knowing absolutely how irreplaceable you are.