This Week’s Reflection

For your own practice and discussion.


Reagan Rafferty (age 13)

My grandmother’s eyes are very dark,
And most think that they are brown;
But I can see specks of sun,
That make them green and golden;
The wrinkles around her eyes,
Remind me of what she has seen;
And the deep lines on her forehead,
Tell me where she’s been.

And her hands are warm and old,
For they’ve held so many treasures before;
They’ve given love to a new life,
And felt an old one slip away.

My grandmother’s smile is bright,
Like it’s seen all the beauties in the world;
Like the sun knelt down upon it,
Surrendering its worth.

—from 2022 Rattle Young Poets Anthology



Kevin Tritschler (age 8)

Deer trick the forest.
They run as fast as lightning.
Leave a flash of brown.
—from 2016 Rattle Young Poets Anthology



Tim Myers

When he died they hunched him up
like baby in womb, curled him
into a shallow scoop in the cave-floor,
planted him like a seed as he slowly stiffened,
covering his slumped and earthen limbs
with a layer of red ochre,
sprinkling him with wildflowers—
then turned away.
Moon comes back each month, so bright,
then curls itself into a dying crescent—
baby struggles out of a woman’s darkness—
petals of delicate blue, pale yellow, in the wet woods,
how do they know
when sun is past dying and comes
to life again?
This is older than cities or books,
older than prayers or earnest discussions,
older than farming,
something buried and burst open
long before words, ideas, church or temple or crudest holy place,
older even than itself,
this longing.

from Rattle #21, Summer 2004


Photo by Dariusz Grosa | Pexels

Photo by Dariusz Grosa | Pexels