Climate Crash Jumper Ayla Boylen

Mister Dead Man Anonymous

14 Who were you? The nameless body that we drove past that day. The one who I still mourn without knowing your name. The ambulance who couldn’t save you that day. Did they even try? Or were you already gone when they arrived? Mister Dead Man. Who I will never know. Why were you just lying on the side of the road? There alone with only the paramedics. Or were they only trying to keep you company? Mister Dead Man. Forever in a dream. What was it like drifting off into that sleep? With the frost over your grave keeping you warm. The moon becoming your guide to my home. Mister Dead Man. A stranger. Why do you affect me so much? That you haunt my dreams, so much that it pains me, and I wake with a scream. Mister Dead Man. The one I cry for. Why do I mourn you so? When even those I am supposed to love receive no grief, as they pass on to the unknown. Is it because I know where you’ll go? Mister Dead Man. Let me see your face, so I can face my accuser

without any disdain. Or am I asking too much? Mister Dead Man. How dare you haunt the living. Without a trace. Why did it have to be me? Mister Dead Man. You take up too much space in my memory. Or was that your plan all along? To never be forgotten. Mister Dead Man. Maybe if I knew you by name, I would finally be at rest. So what do you say Mister Dead Man are you free next Wednesday at three?

Sweet Like Honey Jewel Barnes

They were the first thing I noticed when we met my heart thumped as I stared back at them with my own

Genuineness, honesty and love he held in them our future together I found in them

Honor I feel when I see them dreary in the morning Shame I feel when I fight with them

When lost I find myself in them Fear I seek them

When smiling they are the source Admiration they show me

Our bodies and minds will age but not those honey colored eyes

Bee Days Clare Heinrich

My dad and I love to place a couple lawn chairs next to our beehives and enjoy the presence of the honeybees, perhaps with a glass of lemonade on the side. They come and go, come and go, never stopping, never slowing. Their seemingly bumbling flight patterns make no sense to us, but after a few minutes, we pick up on a consistent path. Up and over to the left, back and forth, down and under to the right, back and forth, up and down again. And their hum, oh their hum. It’s a soothing rumble, the softest of songs. Like the purr of a contented cat, or the vibrations of a gentle massage. It sinks into you, slowly, gently, easing away your anxieties and stress. You feel like you are inside the hive, this great structure teeming with life, energy, warmth. The golden messengers carry their charges to and fro, and you would be honored to be considered a member of their court. The smells reel in memories of baking soft, sweet cakes, the glow of a dying candle in a darkened room, the ding! of the toaster for breakfast. Each memory is distinct but connected.

I look over at my dad. He has that characteristic grin on his face, the one that is genuine and unabashedly real. He is just as in love with these miniscule, wonderful creatures as I am, entranced by their effortless order and communion with the world around us. What they must see, what they must feel, I can’t imagine. But their looping, graceful flights back and forth, back and forth, lull me into a sense of peace, of ease.

The flights the bees take when they first emerge from their hive are called orientation flights. Having already spent

about half their life inside, taking care of new bees and preparing food and resource storage, they are ready to venture forth into a strange, huge world. But first they must know where their home is—these orientation flights, the consistent up and over, down and back motions, lock their home’s location in their minds, fixing it so they won’t get lost. Then they leave, flying up to two miles to find pollen, nectar, and whatever else they need to survive.

I glance down to the small birdbath we keep next to the hives as the bees’ source of water. A handful of garden rocks line the bottom, providing a base for them to land on so they don’t drown in their eagerness for a sip. Three or four rest on the rocks now, their itty-bitty tongues slowly unfurling like the miniature curly straws I would save to drink chocolate milk with as a child. One inches forward too much, splashing into the water, its little legs flailing. I poke my finger underneath it, guiding it back to the side of the pool. It quickly scrambles up onto one of the rocks, shaking its wings. It licks my finger, almost as a form of gratitude, perhaps as an afterthought. I pet the air above its head, then it flies away.