A Year in Sentences This first snow falls like a pleasant chord, fingers stretched pianissimo on their knit hats. In flat panoramas, rain dribbles then gathers to nap on the shoulders of back roads. New light spills sideways, like a child from a spiral slide, dizzy but climbing up again. When streams release mighty sighs, delight in smooth crests of stone peeking from lapping waters. Long exhales into tense film send momentary bubbles drifting above the midway. Kayaks in cold currents float beneath fir and lodgepole, paddling faster to what end. Coneflowers explode beside the road; then bend away in breezes spun from bike tires. With wild lines, house flies buzz ripe peaches, while raw grapes hide behind fuzzy tomato vines. After yesterday's rain, impromptu ponds cast yellow shimmers between rows of cut stalks. The sun withdraws, a taut pumpkin softly collapsing in the wind's bitter caterwaul. Brittle leaves scrawl an unfathomable dispatch, a cursive labyrinth on the lawn. On the porch, two spruces dappled in descending beams from outstretched lights nailed above them.
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry – all hoping to create a home. He lives beside a dilapidating apple orchard in Indiana, and tries to shape the dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been published in Flying Island, Remington Review and is forthcoming in Whale Road Review.