Joshua Heston

The early rains came down again, like they always do this time of year. The grass greens. The daffodil blooms, reminder that no matter the crazy outrage of the day, there is solace in new life, again and again. It seems the world begins anew each year with water running over stone.   I am playing again in the water at the little culvert under the driveway. The little pool that formed was shaded by watchful black locust trees and friendly honeysuckle and yet still the pool was within sight of...

“Give us this day our daily bread…” The rains were heavy that spring of my 16th year, and the gooseberry brambles plentiful with green fruit. Dark skies blocked out the May sun and I kept my worn-out green flannel shirt close by, wet-tinged breeze still biting as I threw hay to the goats. I was old for my years and far too young, unsure of myself, and staring down the barrel of a world that didn’t quite square with who I was.   “Honk, honk, honk!” Our neighbor Cindy was driving her green...

I was assigned the poem by my arts instructor, a harebrained faculty member in tweed who kept changing the rules every time she lost sight of the curriculum.