Sarah Weiler is a sophomore at Southern Vermont College (SVC) majoring in English. She moved to Sandgate, Vermont seven years ago from Tennessee when she was 13 years old. Literally everything inspires Sarah to write, even her own internal narrator who follows her around and describes her days for her. Sarah loves chocolate and animals, and spends most of her time outdoors with her two dogs. She has also been practicing Aikido for three years and dreams of being an Aikido instructor and moonlighting as a novelist.
My feet set to glide
down the rocky mud drive
that led toward the road,
away from the house.
With each step they
sank,
crunched and
crackled,
tried and fought
to drive me in.
But the sound of the stream,
growing, roaring,
swept me on,
away from the house.
There were no stars,
just a quilt of clouds,
racing me,
daring me:
Go
back.
But the wind thrashed my hair
about my head —
became like a sail
and drove me on.
Like bullets of rain
thoughts pelted my cheeks,
swept them back,
but slowed them none.
Stopping —
Stopping?
The rushing stream.
It was too dark,
too dark to see,
the kind of dark
that makes one worry.
So at my sides
it took new shapes:
great angels
rushing to keep up.
Don’t do something stupid,
they said to me,
but so much quieter
than the mountain stream
‘Til at last it ran
beneath my feet
louder than me!
louder than worry!
I drowned in its roar,
felt it conquer the night.
Tugged and yanked,
and bruised its throat.
Quickly, glancing,
I looked back then,
as the stream seemed a river,
and the house far away.
But the wind reared high;
It hurtled me back:
It’s not far enough,
nor far enough yet;
There’s still more to go
before you are free.
My heart beat no longer
inside of my chest,
but somewhere
ahead of me,
leading me on.
And I felt its pulse
in the gravelly ground,
sweep up through my feet
and carry me on.
Catch me, catch me,
if you can.
But the house…
It hung there behind me,
blind in the dark,
wondering,
worrying,
Where are you?
Where have you gone?
My heart paused…
My feet stopped.
I leaned my head back
so my mouth could not close
and took the cold wind
deep in my lungs;
And what I released,
back to the wind,
I hoped to God would be heard by Him:
a breath, a song,
wide and warm,
that bloomed from my mouth
and colored the night,
colored it white
with speckles of
Me.
I turned to the house
and reigned my heart in,
like a bird brought thrashing back to its cage.
The lights inside
glowed hazy and sound.
If I’d only left later,
when they’d all been put down…
But by then I’d be different,
would have forgotten
the ground:
Crunch crackle
Crunch crackle
The wind pushed me hard,
begged me to stop;
as the rush of the stream
faded back to the woods,
behind me a ghost —
Had I heard it
at all?
Each step was silence
returned to my ears.
My eyes felt heavy,
no voice in my throat.
The house,
to me,
seemed strange from outside,
an orange lamp burning
was cold in its breast.
I stepped toward the door,
felt it beckon me in,
as the wind was cut down,
pushed back,
and pinned:
Where were you?
Where have you been?