Andy Perrin is a cyclist, writer, photographer and teacher from southern Rhode Island. His writing and photography have been published by a wide variety of print and digital journals and magazines. Andy was recently nominated for a Best of the Net 2024 award in the category of art for his photography, as well as being nominated for a 2024 Pushcart Prize for his poetry.

***

In hope of grief’s passing

I reached the top edge 
of darkness’s furrow under
a soft vermillion dawn –

revealing the field of depths
the others struggled from
without my reaching hand.

In hollow shadows rests
the oldest harvest of our
long translucent existence. 

Sodden pathways trodden
heavy by their stalwart steps
stretching back toward home. 

I followed with trepidation   
pulled by a candlelit glow 
wishing I was light itself –

in hope of grief’s passing.

***

It was heard

I stood alone 
in cold woods
and felt quiet
so pure 
it was heard

***

This night

Through the flurried flakes of this Christmas Eve, I open the front door, step outside and we meet again. The wind whipped dreamscape conjures a gathering, our whole group coming together at the long table. Caught on the tongue, those first flakes are as sweet as summer’s trailside blueberries. Through the iced pine boughs, the sounds of all the old told stories retold once more and lingering this time. The crisp biting cold cracks the air, splitting like the sturdy oak before it warms us again. Within the lofted glow, the kitchen’s wafting miracle fills our collective soul. Tomorrow’s empty chair will carry the heaviest of weights, but tonight – this night – I sense he is here.   

***

Spring’s palette

A gift born of the artist’s mastery–
as she knew the offering to come.

Her palette knife pulled bark and branch–
carved arctic whites, blended charcoal shadows.

Arms reached lithely over the Saugatucket’s flow,
reflecting only a smooth tranquil blue.

A foot bridge joined yesterday to tomorrow,
while a mill slept distant above falling water.

Buried in the brush, a red-winged blackbird’s
flashy blaze heralds a sweet conk-la-reee. 

She mixed magic to perfection’s red – 
every full brazen red – in one shade.

Over the flat laid canvas, she let gravity pull
small drops off the brush to splash on the

late winter scene, as spring splattered perfectly,
and exquisite maple blossoms were newly born

upon the thinness of winter’s stalwart boughs.

***

Publishing credits

“In hope of grief’s passing” exclusive first publication by East Ridge Review
“It was heard” first published by tiny wren lit
“This night” first published by Black Bough Poetry
“Spring’s palette” exclusive first publication by East Ridge Review