Note (Poem)

Today’s poem is written by our guest author, Tyler. This poem’s imagery completely envelops me, a mental vacation. I hope you can read this poem while sipping in some of the evening’s sunbeams.

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Note

by Tyler Mortensen-Hayes

• • •

—Have you noticed, friends, how amazing it is
that a sunflower contains itself inside
itself, like somebody you love but could never touch;
how it allows itself, come fall, to turn brown
& droop into nothing, though not before spitting
out the miraculous little clusters of sunlight
that have hardened into its seeds, spreading
over the damp garden where congregations of birds
& squirrels & my own two hands gobble them up,
filling with the nourishment of something that,
just weeks ago, did not even exist; & sometime later
all of those seeds—forgive me for mentioning it—
spill out & rejoin everything that remains uneaten
& buried, under leaves or wet earth, waiting the whole long
hazy winter until, clever things, they grow into sunflowers,
& how impossible to witness this again & again,
year after year, & to always take part, always eating
& growing from what rises so softly, so wordlessly,
from the earth, how lucky we are, dearest friends, to be here.

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Tyler is a poet, located in Salt Lake City, a bustling place known for its erratic climate and proximity to vast wildernesses. He once had a friend who told him, “You poets take the weather so personally!” in which Tyler thought–”Why yes, don’t you?”

Past & Present Pull

A very recent and honest poem for you, dear reader.

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Past & Present Pull

by Regan Smith

• • •

I’ve been feeling off balance lately, 
pieces of my mind scattered across the long ago. 

My summer skin warmed by the afternoon sun, 
beneath a butternut tree, 
it’s beautiful in this place I call home, 
though I’m trying to recollect parts of my mind; 
some subconsciously fastened to the past, 
where I try to pull and pry them back into 
the present’s possession. 

But I know
I must let my hands lay limp; 
grow into this new scene; 
I don’t need to have my whole 
life together in a moment, 
not every word needs to be
perfectly placed; sometimes
life looks like a string of stuttered words. 

I share compassion for others, 
but find that I rarely give myself
breathing room or space, 
that I crave control; 
but that’s not what will 
bring me to totality. 

Stress fractures have shown a 
break in my foundation
from placing too much weight on 
myself and myself alone, 
mixing today’s fruit with yesterday’s, 
spoiling it all. 

But I will begin again, 
starting a new season with 
no ties to yesteryear, 
beginning with a prayer
beneath this butternut tree.

Beaming

The front door shuts,  
with a bit of a struggle, 
and as plastic wrapping chatters,  
I can hear that his hands are full. 

A sweet smile, 
with a gentle grasp, 
unveiling a secret surprise—
holding a tidy bouquet bursting with tiny white flowers. 

My eyes arch and dimples appear; 
I rush to embrace my husband—
throwing my arms around his shoulders. 

The occasion of introspection, 
translating emotion embodied through the pure white petals,
and the crisp chrysanthemum buds. 
They collect together in unison, 
bundled into the vibrant stalk with the outstretched leaves. 

I shed the plastic wrapping, 
and grab a mason jar from the cabinet,
filling it with a rush of clear water for the stems to soak within.

As I awaken this morning, 
I’m met with the delicate floral fragrance.  
I cherish these moments—
blooming and beaming,
and swell with admiration for my honey-sweet husband.