by Ella Bloom ’27 on October 23, 2025

---

Poetry

---

The lonesome traveler
With only his pack to tie him to the earth
Sees the tracks of those who came before
Yet decides to turn the opposite way
He carves his footprints into the land
The same way the bear digs his claws into the bark
I own this land
Each step says

He knows not of this world
Of the grasses that have grown long before he swept through them
Of the branches that have extended from the trees long before they fed his fire
Of the water that has traveled thousands of miles long before reaching his lips

He knows not of the land
And its withstanding grace
Of its willingness to remain within time, within place
He sees the deer and wonders which will be the first to go
Yet their tracks are his only hope of finding life amidst the snow

He does not stop to breathe
Does not pause in the least
Like the harsh hand of winter he never seems to cease
In his pollution
His destruction
Of a world we’ll never know
A world of plains and streams and farmlands oversown
He believes his footprints are a God-given right,
Are the freedom that bobs above him like a kite
For the beauty of an untouched world is no different than a bountiful tree
A potential that many may conquer
Yet few will ever see.

by Sydney Cloutier ’27 on October 23, 2025

---

Portfolio

---

Pieces of the sky float down to the earth in little white specks, piling up on the road in front of me. Toe-to-heel and heel-to-toe, I walk one foot in front of the other, hands stuffed into my pockets. The silent white world echoes each footfall. The dust from up above kisses my skin as it falls onto my cheeks with care. The darkness that has swallowed up the sun hugs the tall pines on either side of the road, casting shadows in the night. The lack of light deceives me for just a moment, allowing me to forget. I let the relief of that moment flood my senses and soothe the chill that has begun to creep up on me. I continue to disrupt the cold white clouds that have grown thicker on the road with each step I take. Each time my foot meets the ground a small puff of smoke surrounds where I used to be. In an hour or so, the footprints will have disappeared. The fallen sky will hide any evidence that I was here. That I once stood amongst these trees and walked along this road. The trees won’t remember me or the vapor that erupts from my mouth with every sharp exhale. In an hour or so, the sun will rise on this white-coated landscape, bathing the world in pink and orange light. Sunlight will filter through the pine needles and create hopeful silhouettes on the road. In an hour or so, I will flee from the cold that now sits in my bones and forces my teeth to clatter. I will no longer have to worry about the overdue rent or fixing up the totaled car I left four miles back. In an hour or so, the snow will envelop me and the sun will peek up over the horizon, showering the world in light that I will never see.  

by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on October 23, 2025

---

Poetry

---

The first sip,
I drink in solace.
Piping hot,
sweet cream, coats my throat.

The mug burns,
there’s a slight bitterness.
It’s only real,
it’s only fresh, plain, how it’s supposed to be.

To wake up to the warmth,
every season passes like winded clouds,
across the sky,
I clutch my cup, stare out the window with wonder.

The liquid feels like music,
thrumming through my veins,
replenishing my spirit,
it sends signals to my tasks.

Every day, on repeat.
The spoon swirls,
the color softens.
All through this winter, my bones will have blankets.

by Anna Gambone ’27 on October 9, 2025

---

Poetry

---

Sun melts to sky
Bowing down
Bleeding her orange
Ending a day of shine

Can life’s decline be as beautiful
Sink back from which we came
Born tall, forced to shrink

Watch one person fade to night
Sadly over, but glimmering in ripples
Stars remind us of the sky’s refusal to cease

I will trace constellations how I trace our memories
Painting the picture where it looks best
Some light may shine in the end
Melting to sky

by Riley Londraville ’27 on October 9, 2025

---

Portfolio

---

As a child, you imagined what would happen if a shooter came into your classroom right in the middle of Mrs. Knox’s lesson on long division, and how you would pick up the chair closest to you, and your adrenaline would kick in, and you’d hit him over the head and knock him out, and shield him from the rest of your classmates, and if you couldn’t get to the chair in time, you would stab him with pencils and at least injure him, and that could distract him while your classmates got away, or maybe if he was still in the hall you could barricade the door with the bookshelf and keep everyone calm and quiet until the moment you could all sneak out a window and do what they had always taught you to do in the drills, the drills in which you would hide, trying not to laugh as the principal came over the loudspeaker, “This is a drill, I REPEAT, THIS IS A DRILL,” and because it was a drill and you all knew it was a drill, you treated it like a drill, because how do you act as though your life is truly in danger, and everyone around you could die at any moment, you hide, if you have to, if he’s too close, but if you can save yourself you run, in a zig-zag of course, you can’t be an easy target, because that’s what you are, a target, and if you’re too close, if you run into the shooter in the hallway, your school librarian in a lime green vest and an airhorn as a gun, you fight back, not against the librarian of course, only the real shooter, and you’d be prepared since you’ve thought about it enough to know you’d hit him over the head with a chair, or gouge his eyes out with pencils, or you’d freeze because that’s what you did that one time when you saw him dressed in all black, a ski-mask shielding his face, and his black shoes echoing as he ran down the hallway, and you froze until you found out it wasn’t a rifle that he unloaded onto everyone, but instead 500 crickets in the teachers’ lounge, and if you froze in the most realistic drill, how are you expected to perform in the real deal, when your life is truly in danger, because you’re older now, and you’re not invincible, and your childhood imagination couldn’t save you from the bullets, the gun, and the pure hatred from the man holding it, and it’s only the 266th day of the year and there’s already been 53 school shootings.

by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on October 9, 2025

---

Poetry

---

Your expression,
your countenance,
I can read you.
You’re a book, but let’s watch a film.

Hushed, even, tranquil.
Repetitive fluttering,
the television lightens your face.
Beaming, blinking, a quiet smile, indifferent.

We’ll never speak enough,
and we live in the bleakness,
somehow comforted by shared sorrows.
Your intrigue—

Nothing and everything.
You follow the broadcasted voices,
but I wish you’d follow mine.
Lounge clothes, or a random combination—

I admire your aloofness.
I’d like to be the same,
unfixed and wandering.
Stuck here, forever, it seems.

I’m grateful for your effortless answers,
though they’ll never settle.
Temporary relief, futile band-aids.
Fix me, fix me, just by staying.

by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on October 2, 2025

---

Poetry

---

A breeze formulating, 
as soft as a cloth, 
you wipe away my tears, 
you settle my shaking bones.

Out in the sun, 
ice cold sips of water, 
your hand warms my skin 
just the same.

Laughter prances across the yard, 
we share the same smile. 
The grass beneath my bare feet; 
I’ll be home forever.

Until a brisk night falls, 
we’ll share the shiny stories, 
the dim stories too, 
lanterns will keep them lit.

Never let me go. 
My father’s eyes are proud. 
My mother dresses up, 
You’ll never be worn down.

When the summer kisses 
and melts 
my skin, next year, 
you’ll be much more than a mere memory.

by Sydney Cloutier ’27 on October 2, 2025

---

Poetry

---

I’ve gotten so used to digital clocks it often takes me a few seconds to read an analog clock on a wall. And by the time I’ve read it, the time I was trying to tell has passed, and now I am stuck trying to tell how much time has passed from then until now, instead of telling the time it is now.

How many days do you think there are in the lifetime of an average human? I do not think I care to know. Well, I do, but doing the math would burn up time in the day, which would leave me with much less day than I originally accounted for when I woke up.

In my 20 years on earth, I can’t think of a single second that I have not wasted. It’s far beyond procrastination at this point—it’s more like fear. Or terror. Or dread. I am paralyzed by time. I am not sure what I am stalling for, but you’ll be the first to find out. I am playing chicken with time, and I think I might win.

I don’t know how much longer I can wait. I am done with this waiting game. Can you even be waiting for something if you don’t know why you are waiting, what you are waiting for, and how long you will wait? I think I can wait; it’s not like I have anywhere to be. I think I did once upon a time. I think I had someplace I had to be, and some place I wanted to go. I had a sense of purpose. But that was so long ago. That was before time caught up to me.

In my dreams time stretches out in front of me, and I can see everything that was and everything that will be. In those dreams I have all the time in the world. In those dreams I am weightless, and my heart is steady, and there is no longer a dull ache in my temples. I am free from the hourglass where the sand silently swallows me. I am no longer stuck in the waiting room. But my unconsciousness is also on a timer, and despite my screams, the timeless world I seek refuge in dissolves. And the silence of my dreams is replaced by the piercing chime of my digital alarm clock. It is 8:41 a.m. and I am already late. Oh, how I waste my days.

by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on October 2, 2025

---

Poetry

---

A breeze formulating,
as soft as a cloth,

you wipe away my tears,
you settle my shaking bones.

Out in the sun,
ice cold sips of water,

your hand warms my skin
just the same.

Laughter prances across the yard,
we share the same smile.

The grass beneath my bare feet;
I’ll be home forever.

Until a brisk night falls,
we’ll share the shiny stories,

the dim stories too,
lanterns will keep them lit.

Never let me go.
My father’s eyes are proud.

My mother dresses up,
You’ll never be worn down.

When the summer kisses
and melts

my skin, next year,
you’ll be much more than a mere memory.

by Riley Londraville ’27 on October 2, 2025

---

Poetry

---

Ryan and I step into the elevator up to the rooftop, and I look into the mirror of lustrous metal. I admire his cleanly shaven face and the jeans he’s put on for the occasion. We’re hand in hand, my green and white satin dress gliding over my oiled legs, and I can’t help but smile at the moment, and everything that led me here.

My roommates had just stood over me in the wooden desk chair they dragged in front of our double sink vanity. I meticulously painted my lashes, pulling my eyelids to the side for a sharp wing, as my breath fogged up my reflection.

Six years is big; it deserves the fuss, the wing, the satin, and more. Gio powdered my face while Katie twirled my hair in her hands after passing it through with the hot brush. I ran my hands through silk while Gio told me to look up, pressing away the trenches that had carved their way under my eyes. My legs shone thanks to Gio’s shaving oil, yet another thing I had borrowed in preparation for tonight. I used her oil, her bronzer, her concealer, and Katie wasn’t safe from my sticky fingers either; my hair is smooth and straight thanks to her hot brush, and my lips glimmer from the gloss that she stuck in my purse to bring with me to the rooftop.

It was a team effort slipping on Gio’s green and white satin dress, although it didn’t have to be. It was endearing to pretend I couldn’t reach the zipper, lifting my velvety hair up while Katie’s delicate hands pulled the clasp closed. Gio flashed her camera, capturing these moments in time—photos I’ll obsess over in weeks to come.

Now, Ryan bends down to kiss me on the cheek, making me glow like the sunset of the wildflower petals he gifted me earlier.

As the elevator doors to the rooftop open, I feel overwhelmed—no, pampered—with love.