by Hanna Boudreau ’28 on October 1, 2026

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Portfolio

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A blonde poet with eyes of sky,
Sat beneath a wisping willow
Watching a fluffy gosling waddle.
Upon its neck, a woven wreath
Of tangled vines and flowers.
The poet breathed in the petrichor,
The earthy scent of rainfall meeting soil.
A rumor whispered in the gale,
A fallacious promise of clarity.
But as the thunder crashed,
She saw through the storm’s disguise.
She threw the window open wide,
And let the wild gale rush in,
To defenstrate her papers there,
Scattering verses through the crisp air.

by Benedict Bergeron ’29 on October 1, 2026

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Portfolio

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Lo! Every joy is stained by future death!

All mortal gifts are bound to dying breath

And fair things all shall wither and then cease

And passing whips are these of passing peace.

by Anamaria Palacios '29 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 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 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 February 12, 2026

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Portfolio - Poetry

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My love for thee is all the stars at night,
Reflected, shining in your eyes’ pure glass.
In the dark, swirling cup I sip with delight,
There you are, but you do so much surpass,
You, like a princess over every knight.
But am I worthy to love thee so much?
No. But I love you as pauper loves might
And knows that might’s beyond his reaching touch.
My love begins with grief for your sadness
When your beauty and grace live on in such
Sorrow when they ought to live in gladness,
To be beyond this weary world’s cold clutch.
When a book is found that once was lost in th’ madness
Of busy days, I swell with glee and press
To me that tome and let the day’s badness
Be washed away in every paper tress.
My love beholds an Artist in your face
And if you weep I would hope to caress
Below your eyes and clear away that place
That your laughing beauty might be no less.
But if weeping comes and the good times erase,
I’d weep with you til the day’s most bitter end.
As the red sun sets and the light wanes apace,
I will stay with you, my heart’s dearest friend.

by Clara Johnson ’26 on February 12, 2026

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Portfolio - Poetry

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In twisted, creaking wood I found our names
Were scrawled by mother’s hand on the door frame.

My brother’s name is scratched below my own
Though he’s become much taller as he’s grown.

And so I see her there. She’s only haze,
A momentary blip into my gaze.

She’s like the dust within striated rays,
Like flecks that dance in beams of sunny days.

The fleeting woman scrawls my name anew
At 4-foot-5, though now I’m 5-foot-2.

She gently smooths my hair and on my brow
Presses a kiss I’ve learned to live without.

The apparition moves across the room
With warmth I knew, forgotten warmth of womb.

Forever 4-foot-5 in mama’s eyes,
And never will she see us grow more wise.

And never will she see us grow more tall
And never will she see us grow at all.