by Kaelynd Brouillette on September 24, 2026

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Portfolio

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Small patters on a bedside window, 

Nature’s lullaby sings a soft song 

Clouds collect, howling winds blow, 

The crackling, arid ground seems to long 

For a rain that beats down like a giant’s drum, 

A cymbal crash marks an electrified strike 

The drowning waves are home to some, 

Though small creatures and humans alike 

Scurry into the shelter of brick homes and leaves they run, 

To escape the raging storm and await the golden sun.

by Ian Gualtiere ’27 on September 17, 2026

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Portfolio

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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.

by Grace Batsie ’28 on September 17, 2026

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Portfolio

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There is a time of year in August where everything feels damp.

The fabric outside is odd to the touch.

Humid and heavy,

Even if it is bone dry.

The weight of the humidity is pressing into my ribs.

Something so good, so sweet,

Like August.

Always ends up being too much to hold.

My fingers are desperately gripping onto the goodness of August.

The memories, the song of the bug, the heat of the sun shining on my skin.

But the humidity seems to be making it hard to hold on.

by Benedict Bergeron ’29 on April 16, 2026

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Portfolio - Poetry

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Can one beautician work on thee
And make thy features better still?
Nay, none may yet augment and free
A greater face than what we see.

For beauty showeth out in thee
Akin to gorgeous our one God.
Thou art yet the epitome
Of things that strike an awe in me.

by Hanna Boudreau ’28 on April 16, 2026

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Portfolio - Poetry

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Cherry Blossom boughs, 
Bows down to me. 
They say, “Hello, sweet.” 
Sweet is the smell of the air. 

Birch tree limbs shake, 
Shake my hand. 
They are gentle and shy, 
“Shy Sky Blue” is the color of the horizon.  

Oak’s branches swing, 
Swing to the bird’s songs with me. 
They know how to dance. 
Dance like the sun beams.   

Spruce blow kisses, 
Kisses which rest on my brow. 
They listen to my stories, 
Stories lost in the wind.  

by Ian Gualtiere ’27 on April 16, 2026

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Portfolio - Poetry

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Colors of autumn close in;
the farm is the remainder of summer.
Holding on to the final moments of green that once were,
maple leaves soon turn against us;
they begin to leave their red friends for the Earth.

Paint peels from the house, bleached by the once daily heat.
It will need to be painted blue again come spring.
I tried my best to help in your garden, harvesting the last of the crop.
But some animal in the night already helped me do it,
not much to take in today.
I must fix the fence by the stream,
or more of his friends will be returning.

The cows and sheep crave frost, some roll in the morning shine.
Coming back to the stalls with a certain whiteness on them as they greet their mates.
Joyful reunions and stories are spoken between them at dawn.

I have taken a liking to a little gray bunny that greets me at the bottom of the steps at noon,
hiding in the rotten brown leaves.
He doesn’t bother anything, maybe a vegetable or two.

This year’s litter of pigs turned out healthy as you helped with the birth, 
not a single runt, but one with black dots on its coat; 
shivering as the sun leaves us earlier.

An orange fox blends into the landscape as he comes around in the evening. 
Looking for endless prey to store before the bleakness.
His paws get muddier as the rain doesn’t cease,
still he needs something to eat.

Looking back to our summer spent on the sand,
where the only thing that moved was the time.
I only had you for so little,
taking in every breath as a moment of stillness in the sun.
I return to our room and find the white seashells in your dresser to place around the house—
clams and mussels on windowsills and doorways;
cockles on the quilts and yarn.

There are moments where the only thing I know is that you will come home;
nothing else crosses my mind.
Birds will fly, and squirrels will sleep soon.
The evening breeze will soon turn into a daytime wind,
one that will bring snow. 
But I must not stop,
the farm needs to be ready for when you come home.

So the land continues;
the black will soon consume all that lives.
The only thing I can do now is see to it, and then return to the warmth of the house by sunset.
Where the cats and dogs welcome me to our family daily,
where books will be read and music will be heard.
Where we will wait in silence for your return.

by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on March 19, 2026

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Portfolio - Poetry

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The flowers that sit on my desk,
die when I go home. 
They were once effervescent, lurid, plump. 
The water is absorbed and the contents grow shriveled. 

Their beauty will forever be stored in the softness of my insides. 
I tear up when I see the bouquets, swiftly carried through the swinging doors,
I squint in the sunlight, it is hurtful but is wondrous, 
it’ll melt the snow, and the winter will die, all the same. 

Where are the flowers so effortlessly being carried to? 
I wish to inhale, let their sweetness, their clarity, infiltrate me, assuage my bitterness. 
I want them in my room, at my bedside, the first sign of life as I wake. 
The flowers I once had were only temporary, unlike the statues they leave behind, vestiges of color and lucidity. 

My tears are like petals, I wish they radiated the same. 
There’s courage in being a flower, you exist without knowledge of what you leave behind, but you embolden my belief in seeking a similar blush, 
a parallel passion I felt when I once received you. 

by Clara Johnson ’26 on March 19, 2026

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Portfolio - Poetry

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Staggering wildly to the corner
The two girls giggling in the dark
Yesterday on the run from the party
Small hands pressed into my own
The room is caught in the summer’s warmth
In the linoleum walls of the church basement
With folding chairs
We dance in Sunday shoes the whole night long
To upbeat songs and the light’s buzz leaves
Us cast in gold
Echoes of yesterday haunting
Empty chairs
Staggering drunkenly in the corner
I shiver with cold and tears collect
My skin goes pink from the drink, imitating
The youthful flush of yesterday
The tile is stained by the leaking roof
On the linoleum walls of bar bathrooms
The fan is rustling the stagnant air
10 years gone, I’m lonely
Echoes of yesterday haunting
On the concrete the wheeled bag rumbles
The red truck idles on the curb
Standing there with her arms wide open,
My smile cleaves old familiar lines
The juice of peaches, the ivy fence and the tangling roots
Of the old oak tree
The giggling girls with their golden curls in the basement
Of an old white church
Echoes of yesterday haunting
Empty chairs
Echoes of yesterday haunting
Echoes of yesterday haunting

by Benedict Bergeron ’29 on March 19, 2026

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Portfolio - Poetry

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There he lay upon the field
With shivered spear and broken shield
And armor punctured o’er his heart,
Punctured by a well placed dart.
Glamorous life, he lived it well
With wine-dark drink and revel unquelled,
And fame he won with war-worn hands,
Leading his troops across the lands.
Yes, it would approach one day:
That doom what steals his breath away.
He lay there then with that in mind:
Fate had dealt him death in kind.
But not with grudges did he die,
No tint of vengeance bleared his eye,
Nor lack of wealth to draw forth tears,
Neither sloth to shame him ‘mongst his peers.
For one lone virtue he did want
Which neither saints nor sinners vaunt.
From the blood-soaked ground to the blue above,
He said, “I wish that I had loved.”
There he lay upon the field
With shivered spear and broken shield.
From the blood-soaked ground to the azure sky,
He spoke a prayer and then did die.

by Ian Gualtiere ’27 on March 19, 2026

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Portfolio - Poetry

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There’s a growing cloud on the other side.
It rumbles across the fence posts and barns.
Bursts of light will come down on animal hide
running away from drops, away from alarm.
For now, let’s sit and wait for daylight dark,
whistle with the winds as they blow the sheets
across the yard, where chasing dogs bark
in an oncoming storm molded by summer heat.
Chimes pick up, green trees breeze to white.
Our porch starts to creak with the new traffic
of footsteps, lamenting lost yellow kites.
Pattering rain reaps the dirt, tilling horrific
streaks of mud across the driveway.
Table lights flick on with giddy cheers,
awaiting the bleak end in a wooden hideaway.
Waiting for thunder to roll with joyful tears.