Mj Pettengill

I do not understand why some people purchase the forest only to kill the trees.

The souls of the departed visit us on the wings of a monarch.

From the bosom of the devastated earth, a voice goes up with our own. It says, "Disarm, Disarm!"

Within a short time, many of my former curls were in messy, swirling clumps, blowing gently in the trees.

After all, she watches me unpack the shopping bags. I have a lot to learn about hunting.

As time marches on, it is clear that respecting and honoring our elders has waned into non-existence.

It isn’t just a sweater; it’s the shelter of him—my father—his care and safety enveloping me as if I were a little girl again.

I understand the significance of staying on the path. Although, getting lost in the woods has brought about countless valuable lessons.

I do not believe in coincidences and am grateful for miracles, especially the small, unexpected ones.

We need not vanish in pale shadows, alienated from our essence. To be silenced, overlooked, or crushed leads to an uncertain death.

I have stood beneath the raging skies—a thousand storms threatening life as we once knew it.

Within moments of hiking on the path, my son found a perfect walking stick for me. I will admit, I felt like a wizardess.

Tho’ I knew that mornin’ had indeed arrived, its general nature had gone wrong.

I will make my way home, leaving behind footsteps for future generations while adding another rich layer of memory on this much-loved land.

One of the most dangerous things that we can do is forget to sing and dance.

Here and now, we witness the great unknown, blazing new trails, and discovering that we are not lost, but the world itself is adrift.

The daisies come when my wearied soul is adrift in unknown waters.

I played as a daughter—your daughter. This was no ordinary gig.

A slight breeze rolled down the slope of the hill, revealing that it was a violet blossom hidden beneath the shadow of its leaf.

By W.H. Auden For Cyril Connolly The piers are pummelled by the waves; In a lonely field the rain Lashes an abandoned train; Outlaws...