“Ode to a Spring Semester” by Maggie DeNoon ’16
The first sign of spring creeps
up, not like a lamb, but like the
ant who found its way onto your book,
inching across the pages.
A faint small breath of life
into dusty tomes. The trees rustle. The swing creaks.
The ant finds its way onto your hand, dances
lightly. It has come far, up from rocky ground.
Yet it inevitably leaves your page, with only
A memory remaining, and you clutch it to your heart.
The cold stone of the concrete step stings your palms as you
lean back. A winter’s breath lingers.
Every moment is the last, you think.
Every moment must be savored, and
you feel like a child who discovered
you can only hold water in your palm so long.
“Ode to Spring: Lost and Found” by Katy Kim ’18
Waterlogged old-dog sneaker— some cavalier saunter must have led you
with your flapping tongue (drowsy eyelets) into a patch to Fall
asleep, to nap, and Dream— forgotten, as your barefoot
boy sprints away with his huckleberry loot, chasing summer’s wind—
So you dream— forgotten. Maybe your canvas body creases into itself,
the season’s shelter of fireleaves and a soft fieldmice
a-tickling your worn rubber nose)— and it’s all white now.
White, as new sneaker boys kicklick the snow away—then,
you spring into Awakening— Cut through the obsolete
so an old-dog sneaker can stand to be found.
“Spring Allergies” by Francesca Badalamenti ’18
You’ve come back to me
with shades of lilac, amaranth, gold,
but I’m not crying at your beauty
and I’m not sneezing ‘cause I’m lovesick.
The cause of my destruction is your sulfur-like powder
The demonic manifestation that keeps you so vibrant
tears me apart, with pain no amount of antihistamine can cure.
“Spring: a Haiku” by Maddie Christmann ’18
Emerald grass peeks out,
Ruby petals drift to the ground,
Diamond dew collects.
“Spring Cleaning” by Sanya Bery ’17
The For Sale sign
is pierced against
newly sprouted grass.
Boxes lay here,
there,
an array of memories
we promised to keep.
The old pogo stick
wears a worn out red,
like a far forgotten
fall leaf,
and peaks its shy head
out of the brown bin.
She tosses it
to the side
remembrances with it,
stacks of tattooed papers
taking the
space.
“Necessities”
Frayed handlebar
grips, the spring rusted over.
A blurry
image of childhood.
“That Time of Year” by Ben Kany ’18
It’s that time of year again
when hummingbirds spread their wings
and flowers pose
It’s that time of year again
when butterflies unravel
and cherry blossoms perfume the air
Out with the old and in with the new,
we welcome spring
With open arms.
“Haiku to Nature” by James Marcucci ’16
Nose leaking, drip-drip.
Eyes swollen, throat dry, cough-cough.
I hate allergies.
“The Unlikely Return” by Ben Leit ’18
It seems absolutely hopeless.
Bleak.
The pantone whites and muddy grays wear thin.
The bite of the cold still stings.
And then, it begins.
Outside becomes unbearably inviting.
The world becomes filled with vivacity.
It all comes back, and it’s all brand new,
and it’s better than it ever was before.
“Allergies” by Maddy Mudrick ’18
Petals from newborn flowers drift across the sky,
Like falling stars painting the ground
lavender and ivory.
Tissues from teary eyes and running nose
fall from my hands and create a bed around me,
cocooning me like a snowdrift,
sparking memories of crisp winter nights,
snowflakes dancing lazy circles in the air,
and not a speck of pollen in sight.
“Ode to Spring” by Valery Tarco ’16
When I dragged my body from under my warm sheets this morning
the sun crept up my body until
it finally caressed my face,
and flooded my vision with promises
of spring,
warmth,
car rides with windows down
and music up.
I didn’t set the bar too high.
Long jeans
combat boots
short sleeve shirt.
I even took the precaution of taking my jean jacket!
But when I opened my door
and the wind whipped my face,
I took a tentative glance upstairs towards warmer coats and sweaters
then one at the clock, already five minutes late.
I trusted you. I thought you’d come through for me.
But now as my day is winding down
and you’re saying your last goodbyes and fading out of view,
I know.
The Sun, it turns out to be, is nothing but a little tease.
“Ode to Hydrangeas” by Betsy Zaubler ’17
Each year, I waited for you to swirl to life,
my very own amethyst daydream.
I’d ask my grandmother for a bouquet
and watch her chip chip chip at your stem.
You’d sit by my bed and I’d look at you
Once, maybe twice, then you’d wilt away.
“Poland Spring” by Alena Zhang ’18
somewhere in Poland
water crawls beside
a fresh spill of glitter lava
trees paint a cowhide black and white
silhouettes of spotted embers
glowing by the hands of the sun
and where darkness erupts into light
a maelstrom of dragonflies
jets across the scorching stream.
“Ode to Spring” by Abbey Zhu ’18
You are the spindly branches of a naked tree,
gently curving upwards at the sun’s beckoning
to show your radiant face.
You live for the unfurling of leaves into a bright green canopy,
rain splattered petals fluttering at every breath of wind,
velvet nosed rabbits peaking through tingling blades of grass.
You dance through fields of bluebells and boronia,
purple cartwheels pinwheeling across my heart.
You take spring in stride –
Please don’t leave me behind.
“Spring Breath” by Sarah Chang ’18
Spring breathes
Trees ripple a myriad of emerald.
Small, tight, lascivious rosebuds bite against the dull, fatherly brown.
Spring rustles through the grey.
A warm hazel peeks out, white papyrus stalks reflecting dawn.
Ancient, mossy boulders declare metaphysical meanderings,
declarations of love,
with crude hearts and straggling arrows.
“Dawn” by Young Se Choi ’18
Out of the dead branches
fallen leaves,
frozen power lines,
white blankets and sheets,
and cauliflower trees
springs a new seed
a stem, a flower,
and a vivid carpel
“Ode to Allergy” by Mark Dempsey ’16
I’d love to love you–
warm and soft, a gentler transition from frost to flowers,
but when I behold your sunny form, my eyes water and puff up
and when you hold me in your arms, I get rashes all over mine
and when I breathe in your sweet scents I double over, hacking and coughing.
I guess we’re just not meant for each other.
“Daybreak” by Jenn Huo ’18
Soles onto cement, hands drawn to the side
I push off and feel cool wind flute past my ears.
It nudges me backward but I keep a steady pace,
moving alongside the barbed wiring
of a rusting fence.
Figures are blurry,
but I drive past – toward a patch of sunlight,
jaded from being hidden for so long,
beginning to manifest between two patches
of cruising clouds.
“Ode to Spring-kles” by Sam Kany ’18
You are soft with hard edges
that withstand your frigid world
but collapse beneath the pressure I put you under.
You bring color into an otherwise
monotonous day, and when
I taste you on my tongue,
the nuances of your flavor
are subtle but distinct,
demanding my attention,
like the cravings you evoke in me
on a warm, sunny day.
“On Spring Days” by Eva Lebovitz ’18
In an old city, under the crackle of fireplace hearts and the whine of cobblestone,
small hands are grasping at saplings again.
Pollen paints their soft cheeks marigold and sneakers are sliding
on the slush-slick pavement.
Back behind the house where we used to live,
my brother is traipsing down a younger river,
walking back through the good old days,
with the same small hands grasping at tree branches like treasure chests.
Water fills up his boots and he splashes thick, rivershone mud at me.
I’m sitting on the bank, cool and dry, but the earth still stains my red cheeks ochre.
And somewhere, in a small town always on the border of singing,
snow is melting, and slowly,
a dandelion pushes itself up through chilled earth
to meet rose-washed cheeks,
a yellow streak of pollen peeking out under fingernails, and
small hands.
“Can’t Keep Up With You” by Megan McCullough ’18
Your constant hot and cold
attitude is hard to keep up with;
one day you want me to wear shorts and a t-shirt,
the next you think I look cute in a tight scarf and winter jacket.
Then you think it’s funny when humidity
makes my hair double in size,
clogging the air with misted
fog that envelops us in a tight hug.
But when the piercing sun cracks through the clouds,
Chilling lemonade will dry our beads of sweat
and blazing flowers will emerge.
Maybe tomorrow you’ll decide to give us a day like that.
This shifty weather has really gotten old.
“Springtime” by Nick Wecal ’17
I pick up a piece of white chalk-rock and draw a crooked triangle on the stone tile, sunlight reflecting off my fingernails.
I am a mirror.
I flick the rock into the distance. It settles next to the brown-white fuzzy of a half-gone cigarette butt, one of dozens scattered across the yard.
Can’t remember if mine or someone else’s.
The just-born spring sun drips down my face, down my body before settling in a pool of heat among the butts and my criss-crossed legs.
I wear the warmth like a bathrobe.
A breeze wafts wild from the woods beyond the yard’s fence, pushes a crushed plastic cup through the grass. It makes a sound like a snake’s hiss.
Of all the hundreds of billions of billions of millions of possibilities
and realities and stories and places floating in the void: I am here.
Planes fly far far above my head, slicing the scalding sky into bite-sized pieces for the sunset to devour.