Rachel Nutt, Honorable Mention, Poetry
All my seasons blend:
winter pastels and spring acrylics,
autumn oils smudged on a dull grey canvas.
Summers passed like Monet’s blurred edges
with the dusty taste of sun and paint,
hiding in my cousin’s sunroom.
I want to go back
into the house, but his hands
are hooks and our shadows merge
as grass tears under his heel –
his face glowing, red
and out of breath,
upturned and glass-eyed,
leaves me sprawling open
shivering under twisted lilacs.
Is there anything you remember?
the bluecoats asked me.
Anything, anything at all?
I can’t help you,
I told them.
All my seasons blend.