My soul manages a pack, protecting it
From harm, caring and managing through
The blistering winter, crystal clear blue eyes,
White fur glistening like snow falling slowly.
My soul is adventurous and loves seeing
New things, new to the world so much
To see, playful and tough.

My soul is high, graceful, feathery and fragile.
Flying is my life, soaring high and low, searching
To survive.

My soul is meant to run, flashing by as if
Never there. Big and warm, soul beams so
Bright it makes the stars see like they aren’t
Glowing. Beautiful hazel eyes gleam so beautiful
As if the body were a race car all
The gears and gadgets at the end of the day
It is time to collapse.

My soul is soft and warm, snow white fur
To keep my soul warm and bright
Amazing, suffering, and wise, dark ash blank
Eyes.

My soul has a dream of helping
Removing pain or putting them out of their
Misery or bringing them back to life as
If spring blooming and just like that
Lots of things come to life, over and over
Again. Life so simple and harsh.

My souls thinks of life. Things suffering
And new souls being born. Of things
Suffering pain and how it might feel.
]]> http://missoulawritingcollaborative.wordpress.com/2011/04/12/10/feed/ 0 mwcblog http://missoulawritingcollaborative.wordpress.com/2011/04/12/first-thanksgivings-by-caroline-patterson-mwc-writer-in-residence/ http://missoulawritingcollaborative.wordpress.com/2011/04/12/first-thanksgivings-by-caroline-patterson-mwc-writer-in-residence/#comments Tue, 12 Apr 2011 14:55:17 +0000 MWC http://missoulawritingcollaborative.wordpress.com/?p=19 ]]> First Thanksgivings
For my mother

The Thankgiving you wouldn’t let me wear nylons,
the two of us fighting just before the door opened, and
The guests arrived, your friend, her daughters and sons,
their husbands and wives,
My anger still scorching the room
at not being allowed to grow up—in sixth grade nonetheless—
as they took off their coats and hats and scarves
and settled into house, the velvet couches, the overstuffed
needlepointed chairs.
Smells of turkey wafted into dining room, where your portrait, painted
By the father who disappeared at thirteen, looked over everyone,
As we bowed our heads over the long table, even the card table
Covered with linen that served as the kids’ table,
and me, stuck at the middle,
between, the adults’ and the kids’ tables, my nylons
Folded under my knee socks, in protest,
As we all celebrated the fact that the pilgrims survived their first
Year in America, by learning to eat corn, turkey, food of the natives,
that my mother’s friend survived the removal of her right lung
Cancerous from years of smoking,
That my mother survived my pre-teen fury,
That, on this grey November, the clink
Of crystal and silver and china were ringing
Us together.

Slam! As the old oak cabin door
Slams shut after the anxious 24 grand-
Children race through the small old cabin
To the bunkroom where all the cousins hop
On their bunk beds, the safest place in
The world. We all set up the air bed.
The frizzy, fluffy, puffy sheets, next
Comes the lovely soft comforter. Next
Comes the rope swing. As we soar
Across the water, with the life
Jacket buckle thwapping against my
Chest. Before I start to smell the
Rotten essence of dead fish, I smell
The fresh water mixed with a tinge
Of pine which was amazing. I see
The faint shape of a tree going
Across the water. I start to climb
The old tree, the steps made of
Wood, my stomach starts turning
But it all goes away when I swing
And do a perfect pencil dive.
]]> http://missoulawritingcollaborative.wordpress.com/2011/04/12/north-wisconsin-cabin-by-gretta-wellenstein-5th-grade/feed/ 0 mwcblog http://missoulawritingcollaborative.wordpress.com/2011/04/12/summer-tag-by-sonja-walden-severtston-4th5th-grade/ http://missoulawritingcollaborative.wordpress.com/2011/04/12/summer-tag-by-sonja-walden-severtston-4th5th-grade/#comments Tue, 12 Apr 2011 14:45:24 +0000 MWC http://missoulawritingcollaborative.wordpress.com/?p=29 ]]> Summer Tag

Playing tag on a cool day.
Morning summer sun shining down
Warming us. The babysitter,
My friend’s sister was it.
Chasing me and my sisters
Trees were safe. I was running
Toward one. She was chasing
Me. I felt my dress fluttering
Around my ankles. She was
Right on my tail. I reached
Trying to touch the aspen I
So desperately wanted to feel.
I felt the bark skim my
Fingers. The rest of my hand
Hit the tree. I was safe.
I turned. She was running
Toward my sister who didn’t
Seem that she was running
Toward her. She reached out
And tagged my sister. “Yes!”
She said. “Nu huh!!” my sister said.
She took one step back, a root
Way under her bare feet.
It was part of the giant
Tree that towered over
The rest of the yard.
The babysitter got mad.
We went inside,
Remember the cool green
Grass,
Rushing past our feet.
Exhausting us.