by Ian Gualtiere ’27 on September 17, 2026
Portfolio
Upon this crescent valley where I lie,
and the cycles of trees are birthed to die,
there is a white wind that flows freely.
It dances upon the flowers, daisies ideally,
to create waves of stems in a wine dark sea.
Birds flutter about, hopping from the trees
to search for bigger meals and quiet feasts.
Clouds pass me by, heavenly priests
that are filled with the tears of the past,
continue their merry float in skies so vast.
But here I stay, watching for movement
in the leaves; where nature’s improvement
for my soul patiently awaits. It beckons
me forward to step into the shady reckons,
cool on the skin and crisp for the breath.
In this pocket of shadow, day’s first death.
The world flows and hums to a beat below;
rhythms rush in blood that pulse and flow.
For the twilight is where I must take leave,
and follow the narrow path back home;
a trail that halts me from the eternal roam.
Back into the cloisters of love and flame
as the world falls apart from this game;
permission into your arms must be granted
by the one whose mindful roots are planted;
one by one into the heart you enchanted.