Iris C. 10th - San Jose, CA
Its branches bare,
the lone tree stands, 
watching fall’s golden leaves 
blowing in the breeze
till they touch down
on the worn dirt ground
and lay there.

Come winter,
the lone tree stands 
through rain and unforgiving sleet.
rocked back and forth, 
bent by violent winds.

Yet still the lone tree stands, 
stains of rain on its careworn 
bark, the last tears of 
the tempest’s storms.

It is waiting 
for snowdrops and daffodils,
the air to fill with honeyed scents,
petals that float and dance,  
as birds sing a tinkling tune 
about the touch of 
spring.

B.Loza, 11th - Livermore, CA
A man on a breadth of farmland with a sense of urgency. His corn, his instrument, his livelihood. A small wooden shadow of a cabin, home to limited belongings. His true home is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. 

A loving mother watches under him, for she is the very dirt on which he stands. The sky's limit, but a taunting older brother. Ancient father of all whose ample garden of Eden overcame all. Let us be found in the very air you breathe, the same bread you intake, for that way may we not be forgotten. 

At this time, fairness is a myth, while luck is a standard to which humans must compare themselves to. A word no longer a promise but a faraway dream. Our future is no longer in our hands. The palm that feeds us is no longer an option. Imperial titles are uncertain of the turmoil but insensitive to the collective need. Multitudes will line up along the final migration—the last breath, the final sin.