She yanks the beige flowered towel, Down from the rack it tumbles to the floor. Scowling, she vows to place it, Within the closet, deep. Washing sweet soil covered hands, Reaching for a safe towel, She considers the finished act, Honor for him, gone now. Rosemary small with potential for Robust growth of herbie memories, Gently placed in the soil To remember when synapses fail. Water, sun, soil, love; Rebirth; new form. ~Regina Holt

In her purple Field Day shirt and white tennis shoes, Her hair pulled up in a pony tail, From a hurried morning ready, She stands there with anger in her face. “How dare you just sit there?!” She continues on to explain, “I don’t care if you think it was my fault, I know it was yours.” “Why would you not do it?” “I was counting on you!” “We have nothing now, It’s your fault, not mine.” With crossed arms, she stares it down, Indignant, wanting an answer. There is no answer, Only oblivious kids of her class, Waiting their turn with different reason, They wish to climb on it.…