Poetry
Exploring the relationship between self and nature, and the tension between memory and impermanence.
Pushcart Nominated Poem
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Pushcart Nominated Poem *
Made and Unmade
Serendipity
You hear the roar beyond the rocks,
water gnawing the world down to size,
a white mouth unmaking stone,
spitting mist into the wind.
My hand traces the scorched basalt—
a memory of fire, volcanic heat
long-cooled to black, bare but for one
fragile breath of Arctic bloom.
Even in the deepest shadow,
something endures—
a root, a green pulse,
a quiet defiance against the burn.
©Sam Aureli
Published in Poets’ Espresso Review: Volume 15, Issue 1
Photo by Sam Aureli (iPhone)
Dandelions
We are quick to pluck, to clear what doesn’t
belong, because the grass wouldn’t be as green.
But did you know dandelions are the first
sweetness bees taste in spring? Golden and brave,
they rise through frostbitten soil before tulips,
before lilacs, before the manicured bloom
of beauty that arrives late and praised. We call them
weeds, but what is unwanted still serves.
What we overlook may be someone’s only hope.
I think of this on quiet days, when I wonder
if I’ve offered anything worth keeping.
©Sam Aureli
First published in Three Panels Press, Issue 05: Honey and Ash
Photo by Sam Aureli (iPhone)
Listening
I love how the wind plays with a tree full of leaves,
a drift of green chimes in the forest’s breath.
Not music, exactly, but something like it,
a brushing of sleeve on sleeve, as if the branches
were leaning close just to say this to one another.
It’s barely audible—only when the wind finds
the right angle, the right note of longing or joy.
And I wonder, watching the slow sway, what they’re
saying in that secret tongue of rustle and pause,
and if listening is all that’s ever been asked of me.
©Sam Aureli
Published in Poets’ Espresso Review: Volume 15, Issue 1
Photo by Ash Amplifies on Unsplash
Patchwork Light
The horizon bleeds rust at dusk,
a tongue too heavy to speak.
Beneath my ribs, a sparrow nests—
its wings damp, folded tight.
Once, I traced a river’s spine
on a map stained with coffee rings,
dreaming of a shore I’d never reach.
The wind smells of ash and old refrains.
A child’s shoe lies abandoned in the grass,
laces frayed like a promise unkept.
I hold the pieces—
a shattered cup,
a forgiveness that doesn’t quite fit,
a shard of blue from a sky I lost.
I set them down,
turn toward what remains—
a needle of light through the clouds,
a lover’s laugh,
rain tapping on a roof
I still call home.
©Sam Aureli
Published in Three Panels Press, Issue 05: Honey and Ash
Photo by Gelu Iancu on Unsplash