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  • Jennifer Preston Chushcoff


(Macro photo of ice crystals on a maple leaf)

I was taking care of some garden chores this cold, winter morning when I noticed dozens of beautiful ice-rimed leaves and ran to get my camera before the sun erased it all. Dew drops were already sprouting to life. Here’s the poem I wrote after coming inside to thaw.

In these small worlds

a universe

a fragile life

built in their short history.

Slivers of translucent glass

born in cold, dark hours

to vanish at first light.

But, who am I

to speak of time

when the weight of centuries

cannot crush the ageless stars?

One hundred thousand years

of sweeping shadows

chase the moon, while

primal clocks tick tock

like death knell drumbeats

to mark the day-long lifespans.

A sleeping Sisyphus

controls our tides

while we are born addicted

to time

to life

to dreams of


when it’s enough

to just be



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