By Holly Castleton
It must be deafening,
the sound of them.
The tension of tender
stalks, the crack
of seedlings,
peeling of petals,
a cacophony of retchstretching growth,
sluggish contortion,
pushing up with behemoth strength,
eons of earth, to burst
into the squelch of decomposing
winter leaves.
Then,
the nervous flutter of violet wings.
Holly Castleton is a master’s student at the University of Edinburgh studying Creative Writing. She has an MA in Religion and Literature and graduated from BYU with a major in English in 2020. Her poetry has appeared in Rue Scribe by Underwood Press. She loves to read, eat, and practice yoga.
