Somewhere Out There

by Julaina Kleist-Corwin

Branches’ leaves reveal
Glittering spaces to dwell
Humanity heals.

Somewhere Out There

by Jordan Bernal

Somewhere high above
Sunlight twinkles of so bright
Stars gleam in my eyes

This Old Tree

by E. Ruth Harder

Oh, my, look at that old tree
I almost cut it down
Once gnarly limbs and faded leaf
Would surely make you frown

Oh, my, look at its new growth
A buzz with bees, bright green
Its branches sparkle beautifully
To embrace a love unseen

Oh, my, I’ll keep this old tree
Whose years have been productive
It’s lived through storm and pestilence
And yes it’s still seductive

Oh, my, see how the wind stirs
Limbs undulate with pleasure
That old bud is abloom again
A gift I’ll always treasure.

Tree Span

by Deborah Grossman

Clouds gape at you through the leaves
They are watching you
the tree says.

It’s easy to hide behind me,
sit with your nose in a book
or a Nook or any device
which keeps you far from the sky.

Look up once, maybe twice a year
watch those white puffs shaped like stars
dance between the branches

Stay awake somewhere out there
A new chapter awaits
at your roots

Light

by Diane Lovitt

Looking up at the trunk
The bright sun light slivers through
Or is it from stars?

The Tree and the Blacksmith

by T. Clauson

We’ve had a good run, you and I.
My blacksmith’s shop beneath your canopy
Of oak. Your chaplets,
Wreaths of leaves and evergreen
Watching over me as I ring
My hammer across the valley.

The twilight of your shade grants me sight
To see the glowing steel
And ready it for vital change.
My sparks, your stars, I see their aura
Shining still and blazing through your blackest forks.
My blessing is the gift of my strong hands
That I transform calloused metal, molded, shaped,
Folded, carved to poignant creatures
That, when perfected await our embrace.

But my time is over. My work is done.
My anvil and forge, my heart and soul,
Beat no more with heated fury.
And when I leave, there’ll be no need
For iron worked and formed with dear caress
My trade, the last of my life’s blood,
Spilled, replaced by industry.

So take these tools, my friend
And wrap your roots around them.
As time wends on and I am gone,
My name scattered like dust
Through pillars far to north wind’s home,

Your time begins. With your magic,
Call the winds, north, south, east, west.
Take back the mountain for the sun that rises in the east,
Sets in the west, for the moon that makes
The nighttime shadows glow,
For the cleansing rain.
Sun, wind, rain, moon,
Each touches the mountain,
Shapes the hillside on which you stand until
All that remains of my blacksmith’s shop
Is a clearing under a great oak tree
Somewhere beyond our reach.

In the future hammers will ring once more, but
Instead of music you will hear, jarring
From factories below, a steady clank,
Clank out of tune, no beat the same.
Instead of phantom steam from quenching steel
Clouds of smoke obstruct your view,
Your leaves turn brown, branches brittle.
An old man’s face marks your greying, grizzled bark.

On the day you topple, my friend,
My tools will be swaddled within your roots.
And we will tell our story,
A story about a world when I was
But simple blacksmith and you.
Your branches brushed the stars.

Visual Arts Argue

by Linda Todd

The Winterfest celebration is almost underway. Vice President Patricia and Programs Director Tara rush to hang the two quilts Tidepools and O Christmas Tree on stands behind a table as members begin milling around the conference room.

“Hey, Tidepools. Remember me from quilt circle?” O Christmas Tree said.

“Yes, how could I forget? How are you?” said Tidepools.

“Finished, as you can see. Looks like we’re both entered in the Winterfest celebration. I heard there were twenty-five visual art entries.”

“I know and I can’t wait to see how many writers I inspired.”

“I’m sure I inspired more writers than you.” O Christmas Tree flipped up one of his lower corners to show off his green, gold, and blue colors. “Everyone knows abstract art is more inspiring than scenes from the sea.”

“What are you talking about? Have you never heard of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea?”

“Who hasn’t? But I represent the biggest holiday of the year. Did you know that stores stock their shelves sometimes six months in advance of Christmas Day?”

Tara poses the arms and legs of Yo Pumpkin, a fabric gourd, in the center of the table.

“What are you guys yammering about?” said Yo Pumpkin flapping his arms into a more comfortable position. “I’m going to garner the most writings. Who could resist my bowling ball body and lanky arms and legs? With my orange, gold, and yellow colors, I can dress up any sofa or chair for fall. Did you take a good look at my cute face?”

“We’re all made of fabric, so of course one of us will have the most writings,” said Tidepools showing off her starfish and sea palms panel. “Our seamstresses spent hours upon hours drawing our patterns, choosing the right material, and stitching us up.”

“You’re right, Tidepools,” said O Christmas Tree. “Our creators did spend a lot of time making us. But I will be rewarded with the most writing pieces.”

Patricia and Tara arrange the two framed photographs Somewhere Out There and The Sunroom on the table.

“Wait just a minute,” said Somewhere Out There. “What writer could resist my starbursts of light and tree branches reaching toward the sky? I’m sure I inspired all the science fiction and fantasy writers out there. You watch. I’ll have the most writings.”

“Stop squabbling over there,” said The Sunroom. “It doesn’t matter how many writings we inspired. The purpose of art is to tell a story and evoke an emotion. I heard at least fifty people made a reservation for the meeting today. That’s one hundred eyeballs looking at us. All of us. I don’t know about you all, but I’m honored just to have been chosen for display.”

“I agree with The Sunroom,” said Tidepools. “Winterfest is a celebration of the members and all their creative endeavors, not just their writings. Remember, humans are busy creatures.

Some of the members may have wanted to write something, but didn’t have the time.”

“Look over there,” Yo Pumpkin said as he stretched out one of his floppy arms and pointed toward the opposite corner of the room. “They’re setting out the snacks. Smell that popcorn? Wish I could have some.”

“Quiet,” said O Christmas Tree. “President Jordan is at the podium. The meeting will start soon. Then we’ll find out I am the winner.”

“O Christmas Tree, didn’t you listen? We’re all winners,” said Tidepools.

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