Brigid MacArthur-Thompson, ‘17
Plastic beads swing
like rosaries through the leaves
And the sidewalks have scars
From the rising water.
The roots grow big enough
That as you walk,
You could be upended at any second.
And the ocean waits, ready to rush in
And fade us into oblivion.
The trees must be as old
As my soul,
Because the closest I’ve come to finding
God
Is on a riverbank
Near the edge of the continent.
Where everything is green,
The air is damp and full,
And the light is always gold.
I feel cleansed and light,
Like I am made up only of myself.
Like the divine is something
Mortal souls can touch,
And I could grow up into the branches,
And the fiery sky might be my mother.
