s n o w

by Hanna Boudreau ’28 on January 29, 2026

Portfolio - Poetry

cover me—hide me—when I am overcome with woe

comfort me—console me—when I know not where to go

call me—christen me—with the name which you bestow

catch me—carry me—when I trip over my own shadow

coddle me—cradle me—like an old weeping willow

challenge me–captivate me—like the swirling art of Van Gogh

compliment me—celebrate me—as one does a beautiful rainbow

cure me—complete me—never let me go

The Poet’s Plight

by Benedict Bergeron ’29 on January 29, 2026

Portfolio - Poetry

I sit before my oaken table
As oft as I am able
With pen in hand and paper
My words, never stringing.
I try to be a shaper,
A song-maker, singing,
But inspiration lacks;
My purpose comes to naught.
I turn to trace my tracks,
But I have none begot.
Before my oaken table, I sit,
Not writing once, not one bit.
To me, this is a dreadful sight;
This is our curse: The Poet’s Plight.

The Last Stop

by Anonymous on January 22, 2026

Portfolio - Prose

He likes his coffee with milk and two sugars, his eggs scrambled, his toast burnt, and his barstool—the third one from the end of the counter. At least, he likes to think it’s his barstool. He’s been sitting there since he was a young boy, when his legs used to dangle underneath him like vines and a cheeseburger only cost 50 cents. He had a gap-toothed smile then, and a face full of freckles that have since metastasized into the age spots on the backs of his hands.

Time has stood still here, bolted to the ground like the base of the stool that he sits on. The frames fixed on the walls hold portraits of old beauty queens and faded snapshots of old hometown landmarks that were torn down years ago. Through it all, this room, with its chrome finishes, vinyl booths, and squeaking barstools has held down the fort, a last veteran among the rubble of the good old days. Back then, suited businessmen sat shoulder to shoulder in squadrons at the counter before catching the next train to the city. The trains barely run here anymore; he often feels like he sits at the last stop at the end of the universe.

A few years ago they tore off the old taupe wallpaper that sparkled under the haze of its own grime, memories smeared into its stripes by grubby-handed children covered in grease and ketchup. The new tile is teal and shiny and far too garish for so small a space. Worse, it is easily cleaned and he knows its slick, cool surface will not be able to grab memories by the hand the way the wallpaper could.

He orders his food and wishes that the walls could still talk and his legs could still dangle off the edge of his stool. His coffee is burnt and he knows his toast won’t be, so he sits at the end of the world and waits for nothing to change.

Psalm 155

by Clara Johnson ’26 on January 22, 2026

Portfolio - Prose

A Fragment of a Memory

I must have been a little thing to be so tangled in my mom’s arms. I must have been so small.
It is night. We rock back and forth in the blue rocking chair in the corner of the dark room. Shadowed branches scratch the windows and thunder gurgles, though no rain falls, not yet.
Scritch…Scratch…Rumble
It is night, and the thunder cracks this time, and the branches slam a little harder on the window. I feel the rumble in my throat and my stomach. I let out a little yelp, and my hands clench against the yellow plastic sippy cup.
It is night. It is stormy, but she feels like golden afternoon. She pulls me closer to her. She smells like old books and cinnamon tea. She smells like hot chocolate in my yellow plastic sippy cup. I must have been so small to be tangled in her ringlets.
It is night, and she does not sing. She does not sing except for one song every night. A single, listless note, high and sweet to drown out the storm
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
Mama, what happened?

My Old Oak Tree

Weathered and tethered we return to the fields in the woods behind my parents’ house where once my bare feet squelched on soggy earth.
Where once there was a gateway to a deciduous world abounding in the hazy ecstasy of wonder which twisted through the stalwart poplars. That haze which entangled with the wildflowers at their base. Where once fairies wound flowers through my hair and daylight danced and flecked over the woods. Where once, we were warriors and mermaids and mages.
Where once, the oak tree stood.
But now we return, my sister and I, taller and with backs more rigid.
The wind whispers through the wooden squadron and softens their fragility into gentleness like mother’s arms, swaying and waving and staying. Like mother’s arms wrapped around you in the old blue rocking chair, smelling like cinnamon and paper. The wind like mother’s voice,
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
Early in the morning, when the sun is still peaking and glancing, the dawn creaks, and the old mingles with the dawning new. The crickets croak on, and night owls still croon, and the moon holds steady above. But the sun haloes the horizon, and the morning doves chirp too, and mingle with the night sounds.
Everything is cast in gold or maybe silver, cast in the surreal light of almost.
So we return, my sister and I, to collect wildflowers from the fields in the woods behind our house.
Behind our old house.
We sink our feet into the earth like yesterday and tread over leaves dried and fallen, their crunch softened to a rustle by the fall of early spring rains. It smells like rain too, like rain on the earth. What is that smell? Someone told me once it’s bacteria in the soil that the rain coaxes or wrenches into the air, but someone else told me it’s the blood of god defused—how different are those things anyway? Wildflowers peak through the rotting leaves, which smell like bacteria or maybe god. They press on, undaunted by the decay, the winsome smell of almost. We will put the wildflowers in glass bottles of my favorite peach tea and press them in thin pages of my mother’s Bible to capture them, in the moment between.
How long can we stay here between, before the sun crests and the wildflowers die?
How long can we stay here…before we have to move?
How long do you think?
How long?

Maybe it’s Merlot

by Riley Londraville ’27 on December 11, 2025

Portfolio - Poetry

The cafe’s website read: Bring in a nonperishable food or a personal care item, we’ll cover half
your tab, and we’ll match your donation, item for item.

A chance she couldn’t pass up. The girl notices a stain on the cement outside the cafe and
wonders where it came from. It could be red wine or something more sinister. Inside, she takes
note of the pin on the jacket of the man who stands in front of her. Make America Great Again.

She wonders when it was so great.

Yesterday, she had watched footage from 1963 in Birmingham, AL. The Children’s Crusade. Torn skin and flesh flushed. Pressure piercing through fire hoses. Justice too long delayed is justice denied.

And later, she saw a video filmed by shaky hands. Skin is still torn on pavement today. Rusted
stains leaving people wondering: Is it red wine or something more sinister?

“Ma! Ma!” the boy cried out, trying to stabilize the camera. Useless evidence without due
process. He sounds young, although the youth in his voice could be his primal fear taking over, deprivation of nurture on the line as his mother’s face scrapes across cement and crimson fills the cracks. Pebbles stab in her skin and her mouth and her palms.

“I have papers,” she says to nobody. The ICE agent readjusts his mask. It almost slipped while he was just doing his job. Making America Great Again.

In line, the girl holds a can of chicken breast that her grandma had sent her to college with.

“You’ll need it,” her grandma said, but the girl didn’t believe she would open the can. They were both right. This was the last day of the promotion. A nine dollar coffee becomes $4.50, and a family without their regular SNAP benefits can have some canned chicken breast. What she refused to eat is another’s fortune. Justice too long delayed is justice denied.

At the counter, she asks the barista for a latte

“Hot or iced?”

Anything but ice.

Make America Great Again.

The barista tells her she can drop her can in the box up front with the rest. Aluminum spills out of cardboard, but she had hoped for more. It’s been eight days without money loaded onto EBT cards, and the president threw a party. Jewels drip from skin in giant glasses. Flappers strutting by, their lavish headpieces held high. Feathers float to the floor as the billionaires grin and mothers can’t buy formula. The girl just learned that children make up 39 percent of all SNAP benefit recipients. Another Children’s Crusade. Justice too long delayed is justice denied.

The girl walks past the stained cement on her way out. She hopes it’s red wine, not something more sinister. She wonders if those billionaires would notice, if their expressions would even change. They’re too far gone, she decides. Drunk with greed, their stoned faces would stay cold as ice.

Make America Great Again.

Moonlit Blanket

by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on December 11, 2025

Portfolio - Poetry

Fitful night sleep,

flitting of birds,

they dance like tree ornaments in a cove of blonde light.

I watch from my window,

the streets are bleak and clean.

Will the snow fall as it did last year?

My lively breath has been rapid and full of anguish,

let me stare at the sky.

A glimpse of a star

created a blanket for my heart, a quilt of fabric, spun from moonlight,

the fairytales you read about,

threads of light, feathers, flakes of ice and snow.

Spun around, fast and blizzard-like,

the colors are tangible, clear, the material falls over me,

protective, sheeny, its magic cures me of my restlessness.

I can sleep with the intertwinement, the rays of the moon, all in one place.

I don’t need snow as I did last season.

I would never turn down its arrival,

only delegate it as another layer.

Moonlight trickles in through my window,

Winter will never be the same.

November’s Serenade

by Ian Gualtiere ’27 on November 20, 2025

Portfolio

Enter the chorus of children; octaves fill
the empty halls of pews. There are no ill
feelings towards their parents who miss
the show: they work hard and slip a kiss
here or two. While we wait for the hands
of guardians to praise the tones and band
that line the walls, the roads are silent.
Snowfall dots the lane, but we can see giant
clumps of white pushed across the way.
The wait for a melting sun to return one day.
Ring, ring the world anew, flush the dirt.
We should all send a message of hurt,
ripped pages, that follow broken fingers
of bellboys who work behind the thinkers
of their age. The unheard voices of dawn
continue through the black, their life gone
with the sun; their dreams done with light.
Now, we enter into a world of constant spite.
Bells rung, songs sung, as the parents bring
siblings to the concert, sudden cries spring
from the crowd. A silent night, a holy hour,
to show us the wonderful divine power.
One that transcends the prayer books
and conductors—it offers a pretty look.
Sit down for a while, listen, and listen true
to the songs that will bring you anew.

Prince Showed Up on My Back Porch Today

by Riley Londraville ’27 on October 30, 2025

Portfolio

I served him starfish and coffee while Dad told him how they weren’t supposed to meet this way

They were supposed to meet years ago when Dad’s best friend, Neftalie, made fake press passes and snuck into Prince’s house party, where they partied under a moon like this one

My dad was too chicken to go, and Neftalie was too chicken to say hello

But Prince sits here now as the purple rain pummels the pavement and butterscotch clouds hide the celestial glow

Dad hasn’t washed his hand since that concert he went to all those years ago

He practically cut his arm off and framed it once people began calling to pay their respects and offer their condolences

But now he’s set his mind free, and now he understands

Starfish and coffee

Maple syrup and jam

Prince will be gone once the smoke clears, the high wears off, and the record stops spinning

But for now, he takes off his raspberry beret and keeps on singing.

The Traveler

by Ella Bloom ’27 on October 23, 2025

Portfolio

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.

Route 201

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.