Grace

It looks you in the eye,
in your darkest days.

Offers you a second chance,
to put you on your feet.

It is the embrace of a friend,
the smile of a stranger,
it is the love of a sister.

And it is called by the name of
grace.

Garden by Miller Hammond

everyone is born with a garden inside them.

no two gardens look the same,
just like no two flowers are the same.
people might have different soil, a different climate.
warm, muggy, and sticky.
dry, coarse, and smooth.

different colors, arrangements,
different levels of tidiness–
some people like to keep their flowers in
sweet little rows,
or they prefer when their garden is overgrown and climbing the fence.

some people’s flowers are lovely-looking,
but thorny or poisonous.
they seep syrupy scents
and prick you when you try to pick them.
beware the toxic garden.

some people’s flowers are small, delicate,
and hard to see, but they’re there.
some people’s gardens don’t have any flowers–
they’ve been trampled or torn up from their soil.
what’s a person supposed to do without their flowers?

sometimes people with no flowers left give up.
it takes too much to plant new seeds,
and they don’t have the energy to go on.
weeds grow, the soil dries
and the garden dies.

sometimes people plant fake ones.
they’re very pretty, colourful, distracting.
you can’t even tell they’re fake until you look very close.
you pass their gardeners on the street and say, “nice garden.”
and they say, “thanks, i grew it myself.”

Oregon Trail 2k15

We came as a I
We left as a we
With millions of memories
And a bond all could see

We were leaders to the parents
Superstars to the kids
Friends to each other
Companions to all.

With experiences
Not defined by the numbers on our evals,
But by the memories made
And the friendships formed.

We came by intention
But also by luck
To gather together as fellow student leader
To spread the news of the Oregon trail.

Some knew the way
Others did not
But we all found the way
Even though it was tough

When we came it was Monday
When we left it was not
The week flew like an arrow
Whizzing by all too fast.

Dead Weights

The deadweights of this world, bring me down
To the depths of my despair.

But the hope of change, brings me up
As I like a whale
Find air

As I find air to breath
And hope to harbor the world
The deadweights of the world matter no more.

Roots 

My roots lie 9 and 1/2 hours from where 

                 I am now. 

They lie in a land of big, open skies 

in cattle ranches 

in chicken coops. 

They lie in a blue A-frame house by the river 

in sand 

in grass. 

They lie in a cramped, ancient apartment 

in a carousel 

in a park 

in a playground 

in First Presbyterian Church. 

They lie in a college town 

in a univercity center 

in a bookstore. 

They lie in the rockies 

in campgrounds 

in Glacier National Park. 

They lie in geysers

in Old Faithful 

in Yellowstone. 

My roots lie in Montana. 

Chased to the stars 

I was chased by the cops  

chased clear down to Mississippi 

and then chased clear up to the stars 

there I got lost. 

I got lost in the turquoise in your eyes 

and the scarlet of your lips 

and the sing song of your voice 

and the gingerness of your hair 

and the rough feel of your hand 

and the wrincles in your face 

and the smile that cracked the whole world open. 

I got lost in the world, 

but then 

I found you. 

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