This week along the Willamette River, the cherry blossoms burst in the exuberant expression of my own spring fever. The pink petals reached up to Monday’s blue sky, and I skipped out of the office before my work was complete to take a long walk with a friend. Spring’s weather story moves faster than executive orders these days, which fuels impulsive behavior like running outside without a coat only to find yourself caught in a storm of rain and petals. With these final submissions for Issue 5: The Natural World is Everywhere, we read how the wild is carried in our writers’ souls.

Jacob W Harper’s Product of My Environment argues that the fiber of his being was constructed from the landscape of his childhood adventures. Face-to-face with Jacob, you can see that he shines bright with the energy of the woods:
My breakfast was the straits of Juan de Fuca, my lunch the rainforest, my dinner was the majestic Olympic mountains. Dessert filled my body with warmth, the love of people whose lives have been filled with hardship but had the time and desire to care about me.

Our newest Oregon State Penitentiary writer, Keisha Storey shares her in Nature Within. It’s been a pleasure to have add her considered voice to our weekly group:
Rays of sunshine pour through the windows of my cell; I feel gratitude for being alive and well, shining within my heart. As I fall asleep, I am reminded, that the night fall is temporary, just like the darkness I feel.

As I read JL Sandoval’s The Natural World Is Everywhere, I remind myself that his internal voice speaks in Spanish and that every bit of this essay required adaptation. I think of the determination required to write in your first language, let alone the one you are learning: To many people, a bird it’s just a wild animal, or just another type of species from the natural mother, but like a human being. A wild bird can be the exact definition of resilience.

Like the summoning of the tide, the moon cycle, the poet’s assertive inner voice often leaves little time for rest, as we read in Inner Dialogue by Chris Ainsworth.
The inner voice always in flux, full of authority.
Directing principles to the rightful place
Before waxing on about the stardust that fills us all.

One of the great pleasures of running six writing workshops per month is that we are given the opportunity to write alongside our participants. This gives us six opportunities to wait for the nibble, as former Oregon Poet Laureate William Stafford said of sitting down to write. Our very own founder, Danny Wilson closes us with his piece Solace.
The realization — the grasses are not dead but dormant, waiting, lying patiently for the hope in a single glass of water — brings a glint of hope that I feel in my chest.

It’s the end of the week now, and the day is dark and a little gloomy. My play time in the sun has caught up with me, and today’s deadline looms. As I write this final sentence, I am anticipate seeing the pink blossoms this afternoon contrasted against this blue-grey sky — mirroring my delight (and relief!) to be heading home. | TDS

I stand on the bank of the unknown river that flows by. I see low brush around me in various shades of green, some brighter than others. My eyes move from the water that glistens in small ripples reflecting the sun, past the green, and up the hills of a small canyon that holds this water for this moment only. The earth turns brown and appears lifeless. I wonder if I walked up the hill and poured out water out of this blanket-covered canteen that a single spot might turn green, making the adjacent, dormant grasses jealous. The realization — the grasses are not dead but dormant, waiting, lying patiently for the hope in a single glass of water — brings a glint of hope that I feel in my chest. Yet, I know this small drink won’t make any difference, none that we can see anyway.

I step in the river up to my calves. Using a clear, plastic cup, I reach down and let the river fill it. I hold it up to look at its clarity, blue sky all around it, blue sky through it. I take that water and pour it back into the river and think for a moment that I can follow that specific thirteen ounces of water down the river until it reaches the next bend. I follow a spot downstream at the rate I think it’s moving. This water, like the water on the hill, makes no difference in the volume or speed of the river, none that we can see anyway.

Turning back to this part of the river for a moment, I try to see the water in front of me in a freeze frame. It’s so clear I see through to the riverbed, the water almost disappearing. I see only what I imagine. I close my eyes and say three words out loud to the river, to the green vegetation on the bank, to the brown hills around, hoping they may make a difference, even if no one can see it. | DJW

I am a product of my environment. Many would consider the environment I’m in to be one of subjugation, oppression, and misery. Those things can be true. What that brings me to though is not what I currently experience, but rather what I previously experienced.

You see, I was fortunate. I grew up among some of the most beautiful natural splendor on planet Earth. My breakfast was the straits of Juan de Fuca, my lunch the rainforest, my dinner was the majestic Olympic mountains. Dessert filled my body with warmth, the love of people whose lives have been filled with hardship but had the time and desire to care about me.

That environment created what I think of as myself. I keep unto my heart, the days of heavy rains, deep swells, and walking atop the clouds. The ruggedness of the mountains, define the piece of me that will not capitulate. The wildness of the sea inspires my soul to never lose the moment, that each thought and emotion is equally important to the creature created. I am a piece of a natural splendor, created much like the granite stone; a product of pressure and time. My heart is like the rainforest, full of traitorous trails, which can lead us to beautiful ruins. The most hidden wonders which people will view in awe are the ones which provide the most work. The environment which produced me requires work to be put forth in order to enjoy the beauty stored within. You do not stumble upon the splendor, it is discovered. I am not apparently predominant in the natural splendor, you must look to discover the wonders within. Because within me, you will find the mountains, seas, and ancient forests. Unless you’ve explored those places, there’s no way you can know me, but if you truly know me, you will know my seas, my mountains, and my forests. | JWH

A DESCENDANT OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS, JACOB WILLIAM HARPER IS FROM THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST. HE IS A VORACIOUS READER AND ASPIRING WRITER.

Stars intersect with the horizon off in the distance,
Or maybe just out of reach.
The mind is a tricky place to find bearings.
Is the thought new, only a few feet off?
Or treading water so long, time no longer holds meaning
Ideas spread out like grains of sand in a desert of knowledge
And raindrops falling into an ocean of awareness.
Coming adrift or washing ashore
To be found by the first wandering notion.
The inner voice always in flux, full of authority.
Directing principles to the rightful place
Before waxing on about the stardust that fills us all.
Then explaining the moment,
As if an audience awaits explanation.
Always the same voice, but ever-changing.
The prattling of the inner self. | CH

CHRIS AINSWORTH WAS BORN IN PORTLAND, OREGON IN 1982, AND IN TRUE 80’S BABY FASHION, HE SPENT ALL HIS TIME TRYING TO DECIDE WHAT HE WANTED TO DO WHEN HE GROWS UP. HE IS OF ITALIAN AND SCANDINAVIAN DECENT AND LOVES WRITING AND PHOTOGRAPHY.

When things go wrong,
don’t go with them.
— Elvis Presley

It is a sunny day in Madras, Oregon. I live in a small town called Deer Ridge Correctional Institution. The population in here is just a little over 1,000 people. I have no complaints, this town has everything that a human being needs to survive. I am grateful that at least we can keep the body and soul together.

There are different types of birds here. We have huge crows, ravens, and little wild birds. They’re always flying around “surviving” like the people in this town who are in survival mode. We have to be, we are under surveillance to avoid unpleasant surprises. I have no complaints about this town. I don’t suggest you come here — this is not a game or a joke. This is prison

Even here at Deer Ridge, the natural world is everywhere and is for everyone. Nature was originally created to be enjoyed, to study, and to learn from. As species, that is what we do, enjoy and learn from mistakes. To many people, a bird is a wild animal, or just another type of species from the natural mother, but like a human being. A wild bird can be the exact definition of resilience. Wild birds face challenges every day, every time that the season changes new problems come, like high temperatures, low temperatures, snow, or rain. They have to seek water, food, and refuge. And they must be alert 24/7 to avoid predators. It does it matter how many challenges the wild bird faces, he always will be ready to fly and fight another day.

Remember, resilience is just the ability or skill to recover quickly from changes or misfortunes. We’re all going to have difficult circumstance in life, but you can always remember the birds — be like them face the problem, and be ready to fly again. | JLS

ENGLISH IS A SECOND LANGUAGE FOR JL SANDOVAL. HE WRITES FROM DEER RIDGE CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION IN MADRAS, OREGON.

When I look at the 30-foot wall surrounding this man-made prison, I envision being encased in my very own snow globe. Nature is ubiquitous within these walls — I still take notice. I ceremoniously hopscotch to avoid water puddles haphazardly scattered throughout the yard.

The birds sing to me. When I look towards the sky and watch them flying, I am reminded — even though I’m physically confined, my mind is free; free to fly high, explore, and aimlessly wander.

Rays of sunshine pour through the windows of my cell; I feel gratitude for being alive and well, shining within my heart. As I fall asleep, I am reminded, that the night fall is temporary, just like the darkness I feel.

And when Mother Nature decides to shake my snow globed, and the snowflakes blanket everything within this concrete wall, I reflect on the pulchritudinous power snow has a place where beauty isn't supposed to exist. | KS

KEISHA STOREY WRITES FROM OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY.

My grandmother had two canvas lounging chairs in her backyard that she pulled out from under the trees for an afternoon sun bath. First she slathered her legs in Bain de Soleil suntan lotion — note: not sunscreen — and then, she suggested a game to keep my busy little body contained while she soaked up the heat and humidity of a midwestern summer. The black iron chair frames had two resting positions, upright or fully reclined; however, if you leaned back ever so carefully, you could find a balancing point and hover. There was an Oreo for me if I stayed balanced on that chair while she rested her eyes behind those big round sunglasses. I liked the challenge, the micro-adjustments of my weight to keep afloat. I would balance listening to her stories, staying still long enough to earn my reward.

This last chunk of writing for Issue 5 The Natural World is Everywhere was sorted before Vernal Equinox — earth’s very own light/dark balancing act that officially announces spring for the northern hemisphere. It is an act of great effort to hold light and dark equally. The hunkering down of winter cloud cover in the Northwest makes short days seem even shorter. We often lament the dark days. This week Le’Var Howard wrote a moving defense of darkness, which we will publish later this year:
The dark is no isolation from life. You’re still breathing. The dark is where you truly learn to be present with yourself. A new you must emerge.
Le’Var reminds us of our power as we draw down in the quiet and become, as he says, a student of darkness. It is an active rest, like the balancing act of remaining still enough in Grandma’s backyard.

I’ve paired the writing this week to make interesting conjunctions. Carolyn Stickley’s internal illumination plays against Dustin Smith’s tumble through darkness to find and hold onto the details of his loved one. Jai and Yeyin Chin sit on opposite sides of the room at OSP, but each week they work together to move our conversations down new and interesting avenues. Chris Ainsley and Amanda Gorman write themselves out of prison and into a beautiful landscape.

The Illumination of Light Running Through the Rainbow by Carolyn Stickley
A rainbow is an arc of prismatic colors and hues in the heavens. All colors are in harmony in nature and give us illusory hope. Is there a pot at the end of the rainbow and is it shiny white? Perhaps that is where the light turns on bright and you can find happiness. Nothing can dim the light that shines from within.

Down the Rabbit Hole by Dustin Smith
I tumble down a well of consciousness, bumping against the memories of people I used to know as I sink endlessly into the darkness.

…

In Pursuit of the Perfect Bomb by Jai
Loneliness and neglect in common, he accepted, learning love
They learned to trust, then they learned to fly

In Portland Today by Yeyin Chin
There is not a single, actual Timberwolf in sight, but there are geese in Goose Hollow when the geese are in season and feeling fashionable enough to override the rain

…

I Could Have Walked Away by Amanda Gorman
as the perennial flowers finally push
through the soil
and touch the garden with the grace of
green
spring forward is pushed back by the
dusting of snow

Surf & Trees by Chris Ainsworth
Cool mist hangs in the air as the evening sun falls
Dune grass cutting at skin, following the ocean’s calls

…

And finally, I think of my grandmother each time I visit Carolyn Stickley at Coffee Creek. I recognize my grandmother’s spark in her eye and their shared determination to age with flair.

Monkey See, Monkey Do by Carolyn Stickley
In this workshop we attempt to make sense of the past and imagine the future. It’s the natural order that created us.

I’ve reached my grandmother’s age when she cared for me. I find that I too crave that afternoon sunbath in the midafternoon when my eyes become droopy in front of the computer screen. I skip the Bain de Soleil and just stretch out on the back deck and let the sun warm me through my clothes. When I was balancing next to her, Grandma told me stories about growing up at Mount Rainier. I remember looking at her veiny hands resting on the arm rest and imagined them young and tan like the color of her buckskin horse. As I balance the memories between my energetic youth and my ownaging hands, I take a comfort in the moments when I find the light in the dark behind my closed eyes. | TDS

There is a razor thin line between certain doom and total ecstasy
Bending the limits of humane capacity

An almost total symbiotic trust, like the bullet trusts the gun
Once fired, the singular function is always forward

Together shattering the veil of obsolescence and wasted time
Crawling out from under the cities belly

A mutual zeal for living ignited in the literal tempting of death
Never minding intent, the purpose was speed and unity

What a vision they must have been as they came, roaring up
Speeding by, and racing away, hyper focused

Deftly maneuvering in unison, instinctual, without negotiation
Tirelessly sprinting, fearless velocity, dodging traffic

Loneliness and neglect in common, he accepted, learning love
They learned to trust, then they learned to fly

Together and forever, finding joy in the hunt, solace in the chase
The flight from darkness, in constant pursuit | JM

JAI WRITES FROM OSP. HE IS A CONSTANT GARDENER.

The choices made make and break our
foundation,
and I have found in the beginning that they
prefer me lost
as the perennial flowers finally push
through the soil
and touch the garden with the grace of
green
spring forward is pushed back by the
dusting of snow,
and I wonder if our story will be
found in the fragile yet, certain
change in season. | AG

AMANDA GARCIA WRITES FROM THE MINIMUM SIDE OF COFFEE CREEK CORRECTIONAL FACILITY.

Walking towards the surf, sand underfoot, free
Wind stings is the face, breathing in the sea
Cool mist hangs in the air as the evening sun falls
Dune grass cutting at skin, following the ocean’s calls
Radiating colors paint themselves over canvas sky
Crashing waves create a heartbeat impossible to deny.
Hiding is the grand design of superior minds
Easy to find and impossible to hide behind.

Trees dance in the sky, like a city skyline
Far too elegant to look past the divine
Air crisp as a soft earth moves under foot
Branches flooding out the sky, perfectly put
Simple complexity of the world that surrounds
Driving the ideas from within the mind’s grounds
Taste of dew on the breeze, heavy enough to sip
As worlds awaken just beyond outstretched fingertips. | CA

CHRIS WAS BORN IN PORTLAND, OREGON IN 1982 AND IN TRUE 80’S-BABY FASHION, HE HAS SPENT ALL THAT TIME TRYING TO DECIDE WHAT HE WANTED TO WHEN HE GROWS UP. HE LOVES WRITING AND PHOTOGRAPHY AND IS OF ITALIAN AND SCANDINAVIAN DESCENT.

I reside in prison. Everything is concrete. Yet every night, as I lay my head upon my pillow, I fall down a deep dark rabbit hole of my own. I tumble down a well of consciousness, bumping against the memories of people I used to know as I sink endlessly into the darkness. My world seems curiouser and curiouser in hindsight. People seem to sharpen in focus as they fade into the past. Everything fuzzes around the edges when you’re looking at it too closely. I hold people in the palm of my hand in the upside-down space, turning them back and forth, discovering all the intricate little eccentricities that made me love them in the first place. | DS

DUSTIN SMITH WRITES FROM OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY, HE MAKES VIRTUES OF HIS VICES.

In a nutshell, nature is the universe, with all its phenomena. My mind keeps going back to monkeys because they roamed earth nearly two hundred million years ago. Humans have descended over tens of millions of generations from that first mammal. It’s hard to imagine that far back.

Again, writing about ancestry, evolutionary history, and the lineage where we belong combined with all plants and trees, gives me a visual of nature all around me. I can feel the air but not actually see it unless you look around the edges of clouds. Clouds drop raindrops like tears and the sun drying the rainwater is nature at its finest.

In this workshop we attempt to make sense of the past and imagine the future. It’s the natural order that created us.

Monkeys are a subset of primates to which we belong and in the beginning were diurnal and dependent or reliant on sight. That’s what I remember from elementary school. Eventually our noses shrank, and our eyes got bigger, elevating our senses as humans. Another connection is that monkeys have a single birth, not litters. When I visit a zoo, I remind myself that this is how we began. Chimps look like they are fighting for their territories more than monkeys.

Sigmund Freud imagines that humans need civilization to save us from our basest instincts. I think basest means of little value and ponder the validity of this thought. I wish humans would focus more on peace than war or fighting so they could enjoy all the beauty surrounding them. On TV I see the Middle East continues to fight, destroy and hurt humans and the land. I’ve heard the expression “the nature of the beast” — how sad. | CS

CAROLYN STICKLEY WAS BORN IN 1948 IN WASHINGTON DC & GREW UP IN A NEIGHBORHOOD THERE. AN EDUCATOR, CAROLYN HAS FOUND WRITING TO BE ONE OF HER CREATIVE OUTLETS.

I gave the very last bullet on earth to Hanz Valasquez, world citizen, and at the exact same moment the casing hit the light grey sidewalk in red-hot comparison to the cold, navy-blue night. The bullet ironically made a home in one homeless Dorothy L., tent occupant who resided in, on, or around the physical address of one, Portland Street, on one Portland Street, Portland, Oregon, United States of America — and to this republic, for food stands, one nation, a hot dog, with liberty and ketchup for all. The inside of Miss L.’s tent looked like a festive fourth of a bottle of Heinz 57 festooned festively. This is how things go down in our flavor-town, where faces on the streets are as obscure and artisanal as our microbrews. Dreary drag queens, lumberjack lesbians, holy hipsters, Meier & Frank Bloods, and J.C. Penny Crips loiter at the Lloyd Center letting loose lemon drop vested vape smoke or puffing progressively more powerful pools of purple passion fruit at Pioneer Courthouse Plaza, while the obligatory Volvos and Subarus race to beat the Red Line Max on its very own tracks. There is not a single, actual Timberwolf in sight, but there are geese in Goose Hollow when the geese are in season and feeling fashionable enough to override the rain and the grey May feels surmountable in Portland today. | YC

YEYIN CHIN WRITES FOR INTERNAL RELIEF FROM THE STORM THAT RAGES WITHIN HIMSELF.

A few nights ago, I walked out to my studio and took in the rain-heavy air laden with daphne. An alarm went off and I heard my daughter’s toddler voice announce: Spring is Here! — the title of her favorite little board book. I suppose we each have a signal that change is afoot. As I write this, I hear a soft roll of thunder and look outside to heavy dark rain clouds in the north, pockets of blue sky to the south. This weather has been moving fast and fickle all day. Rain is pelting against the windows and has turned to hail. Yep, spring is here and this group of writing is the harbinger for today’s mixed forecast.

Seed packets by writers from Oregon State Penitentiary
The little seed was covered in a darkness that smelled of so many lifetimes, colors so robust that the explosion of cosmic burst — shot out in every direction.

It’s Morning by Amanda Gorman from Coffee Creek minimum
It’s morning, and I sit on the stone bench
to catch the first glimpse of spring.

Entry by Patricia Norenberg from Coffee Creek minimum
I was out in the yard writing a letter to a loved one, when a little gust of wind blew my pages into the ground.

Dragonfly by Nolan James Briden from Snake River medium
Dragons fly in all iridescent displays
Cutting air in flights of wings strong.
Dragons fly in the centering of heart
beating heartbeat that transforms into shape

Para-Troopers by Christopher Lewis from Oregon State Penitentiary
Springtime, yellow golden fields,
filled with sporadic clusters
of towering white pods.

The Rain by Chris Winter from Oregon State Penitentiary
The rain keeps falling down,
I shut my eyes and hold my ears
My face a constant frown.

Walk outside today, pause on your doorstep, and take in the world. What do you notice to the north, and to the south? | TDS

I sit here and I ponder
this cold and gloomy day.
The way my life has changed so much
my actions gone astray.
I hide where they can’t see me
The rain keeps falling down,
I shut my eyes and hold my ears
My face a constant frown.
The walls are solid, doors they slam.
Lights bright as the sun.
I hold some precious memories
of when the days were fun.
I wait in line to wait some more,
A never ending quest.
Nobody wants to help me out
I need to get some rest.
These visions are so scary
because they are so true,
movies can never duplicate
the actions that I do.
I toss and turn, try to think
how things could get better.
Waiting for the paper under my door
your name upon a letter.
I read your thoughts, hopes and dreams,
your daily chores of life.
Hoping to hold you in my arms
without all of this strife.
My dreams they seem to be on hold,
never planned this out.
But one day I’ll walk out these doors,
of that I have no doubt.
I think how things will differ,
the trivial and mundane,
I’ll miss the way things used to be
never thought of them as vain.
By then, the kids will all have grown,
some people will be gone.
I hate this game of chess in life
where I am just a pawn.
Too many things to think of,
the directions we will go,
everything weighing down on me
an avalanche of snow.
No wonder why it’s hard to think
with all this extra stress.
I look upon this guilt I’ve caused,
created such a mess.
I do as they say, no argument
making it the best,
still, I have to wonder
is this some wacked-out test?
Day by day for many years
I’ll search upon the skies…
and hope that no one notices —
the rain comes from my eyes. | CW

Springtime, yellow golden fields,

filled with sporadic clusters

of towering white pods.

Blossoms across the thick

Grasslands.

In time, diminutive winds,

Rupture the legions of

Seed troopers into the

Immense sky, scouting for

A place to commence,

A new life. | CL

CHRIS LEWIS WRITES FROM OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY.

The dragon flies deep in the caverns of caved
in chests hollows,
Breathing fire that emotes rivers of lava’s flames
That brings life in feeling feelings.

Dragons fly in all iridescent displays
Cutting air in flights of wings strong.
Dragons fly in the centering of heart
beating heartbeat that transforms into shape

Shapes of what is real in self.
The self
In transformational moments in time.
Authenticity.

Shows itself true
In deep diving into the once murkiness
Of lakes bodies of water,
Oceans of land untouched at the depth of despair.

Dragonflies bring us to realizations sights
Courier of mind troubled
in times of moving in mourning.
Morning times of grief … dragonflies appear out of their invisible visibility,

the messengers that break the veils of materialism
In spirituality’s energies.
Helpers that help the other beings
Beings of this earth in their process of becoming … whole.

The flying dragons float in
And out
Of realms
Keepers of all existence in and of life —
Bringing home the sent off in re-directional scopes.
Scoped out ranges of freedom sits in captivity’s cavities.
Dragonfly. | NJB

NOLAN JAMES BRIDEN WAS RAISED IN PORTLAND, OREGON. HIS ROOTS BLOOM FROM RICH CULTURES, BLACKFEET AND IRISH. HE WRITES: “I’M JUST GETTING TO A POINT IN THE EXPLORATION OF WRITING TO BE ABLE TO SAY IT IS A RELATIONSHIP THAT I UNDERSTAND; THEN, I READ A DIFFERENT STYLE, FORM, OR WAY OF WRITING AND MY JOURNEY RESTARTS TO UNDERSTAND.” NOLAN IS A FOUNDING MEMBER OF THE PONYXPRESS. HE NOW WRITES FROM SNAKE RIVER CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION.

I was out in the yard writing a letter to a loved one, when a little gust of wind blew my pages into the ground. I hurried to pick them up, but the wind just kept blowing them one by one just out of my reach. The wind died down as I finally picked up the last page. I went back to where I was sitting and started to reorganize my pages, when a little gust of wind tried to blow them out of my hands again. They finally got put together in the right order, and I was able to finish the letter to my loved one. Granted, a little windblown, but mailed anyway with a little dust on each page. | PN

PATRICIA NORENBERG WRITES FROM COFFEE CREEK CORRECTIONAL FACILITY.

One dark morning in December 2023, we asked our OSP writers to spend five minutes thinking about seeds. We collected the scraps of paper and stored them away until this spring. Two writers are still with us at OSP, one has released, and two writers are now at Snake River Correctional Institution in Ontario.

NOLAN BRIDEN
One day the seed was planted. Big hands took the soil and made a perfect bed in the ground. The earth held the tiny pod that looked ordinary. The little seed was covered in a darkness that smelled of so many lifetimes, colors so robust that the explosion of cosmic burst — shot out in every direction. The seed took to roots that held in the earthen soil and one day the seed broke free into the light of day.

I think about seeds and how complex, yet simple they are. How seeds give life and are life. They are the pumpkin seeds roasted that nourish our bodies — those seeds collected after carving a pumpkin in a Halloween season. I think of the metaphorical seeds of writing. I think of the energy that people close to me give to the spaces that help grow, nourish and give safety in such unsafe places. Seeds I think can be so compelling, and joyful if we can see.

JADE
Seed can be negative or positive, I guess it depends on how you feel that day and what you are going through. The seed can be planted for others for a positive gain and maybe turn their seed into something that has more meaning and more purpose … like maybe it might give that little kick start to their positive past instead of the negative path they were on.

STRESSLA LYNN JOHNSON
I planted a seed,
in my mind.

A seed of strength
compassion for the dark.

The seed was planted
in real time in 1997.

I planted a seed in
the heart! Quiet recess.

A seed of home — without fear
moving in delayed time.

A seed of fearlessness,
planted in the cosmic spirit that is me …

AUSTIN CLARK
An empty seed sits solitary
its emptiness filled with potent potential.
In the depths the earth
it feasts on the absence of light
and savors the energy left behind.
It believes it knows itself.
Its purpose
to transport the future that it may someday contain.
For now the seed rests content in its emptiness
certain that someday it will catch its dream
and ascend upward
ever higher in transcendent contentedness.
I am an empty seed.

SEAN
Potential energies in the form of seeds
can be anything from ideas to weeds.
Carried through to dreams and across seas,
seeds have been coveted and struggled in times of war,
and become invasive species from shore to shore.
My ideas in seed form are powerful, I know
And I don’t have to wait until I get out
to watch them grow. I make the most of each
day wherever I am and nurture my seeds
and those of my bros.

It’s morning, and I sit on the stone bench
to catch the first glimpse of spring.
As I look out at the garden,
I find the path of another.
The sun warms me and silhouettes the ground,
I feel complacent and stuck.
There are no birds at the feeder to shadow
the ground with movement. The water stagnates in their bath
and what does it matter, if I’m as rooted
and bound as the daffodils that have
unapologetically broken through the soil
just to feel the warmth of the sun. | AG

AMANDA GARCIA WRITES FROM THE MINIMUM SIDE OF COFFEE CREEK CORRECTIONAL FACILITY.