By Sarah Martini
Ode to the stories of olden
to the green bronze and the golden
to Odysseus and the Trojan
and to every sad votive
offered up to deathless time
ruler of our realm, sublime
shaker of this paradigm
greatest conqueror of them all
countless cities, empires fall
civilizations dawn their pall
and though Constantinople tried to stall,
it was memory by ‘53
and yet the final curtain call,
could not erase its history
Emperor Trajan’s spiraled frieze
may yet cause the heart to seize
some marble weathered, and some stayed
to craft the Athens colonnade
time-worn treasures have decayed
but where foundations have been laid
we will build on up forever
and the past will last and last
that which time shall not dissever.
Sarah Martini is 16 years old and lives in Amherst. She goes to the Williston Northampton School and her favorite sport is cross country. She loves Woven Word Summers on the Houseboat, and writing poetry.
Everything eats and is eaten, time is fed. - Adrianne Lenker
There’s a mug of peach tea on the kitchen counter.
I made it for you in the boiling and muggy, late august summer heat.
You left it there, sitting by the salt shaker and the olive oil decanter with a backdrop of chipping cobalt paint.
It’s cold now but neither of us mind.
It’s the thought that counts anyway, you say to me.
The thought of clinging to the lingering, steeping dregs of summer heat.
The thought of drying lavender above the sink.
The thought of Mary in her little yellow sundress out on the dock in the sunset.
The thought of standing on the dyke watching geese fly home overhead through an immense sky.
The wilting flowers in the jadeite vase on the windowsill.
The vinyl collection passed down from your mother.
The teaspoon in the honey jar.
The rusty coffee pot on the stove top.
The ant infestation.
The quart of blueberries we got at the farmers market last Tuesday. Now mushy and past.
The lazy dog sleeping in a puddle of sunshine on the hardwood floors.
The time bomb ticking down the days until school starts.
We sit on the deck and we philosophize over our untouched mugs until it gets dark and the bugs come out and we have to go inside.
We lie in the grass side by side and we try to see our father’s faces in the cloud formations. Don’t let go, You say to me, squeezing my hand.
I couldn’t if I tried.
We hum our little summer songs,
we dream our little summer dreams,
we delude ourselves into thinking this will last forever.
I didn’t realize it at the time,
but I was holding the hand of the earth,my fingers intertwined with the grass blades and the ant hills and the heat.
Ollie Perrault (she/her) is a 16 year old from Easthampton who has been attending writers workshop since before she can remember. She enjoys reading, writing, and running around barefoot on her family's farm. Ollie is a youth climate activist and a passionate advocate for reproductive justice. She has been a leading member of the Mass Audubon's Climate Leadership Program since she was 11 and is now the founder and director of Youth Climate Action Now which is a Western MA based environmental justice organization.
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