Bailey attended the West Virginia Governor’s School for the Arts in 2015 and the West Virginia Governor’s Honors Academy in 2016 where she studied creative writing in short forms–flash fiction, sonnets, villanelles, and other short forms of writing. Bailey’s stories can be found in Ghost City Review and Whetstone. When she’s not writing, Bailey can almost always be found drinking tea, running while listening to audio books and podcasts, or hiking in the woods with her dogs.
April Showers
Only three days into April,
and we are already cleansing
the sins of winter with the rain.
Dew droplets of water collect,
cling to the hairs like spiders’ webs
that fill the space between eyebrows,
decorating refreshed faces
with aqueous diamonds of spring.
I always wear these jewels with pride,
carrying Nature’s messages
that it is time for a reset
and the Earth is being reborn
in pools of run-off that collect
where sidewalks finally give in
to the persuasion of tree roots.
Following Trails
Not a cloud brushes the sky,
deceptive, but it’s a good sign.
At last unobscured,
the sun whispers promises
that spring is sure to follow
the breadcrumb trails that the wind,
running westwards, leaves behind.
I have already seen some green,
dotted with a tinge of pink—
prettied by dogwoods’ precious petals
that light upon branches
like kisses on fingers.
Frosts still freeze the mountains at night,
and my skin aches each navy morning
for the warmth of the Easter tree
(Forsythia suspensa)
highlighting cliffs and crevices
of the sandstone faces of Route 19.
When I spot the first burst
of forsythia’s rays, I will follow
their trails to find spring.
I Found Them, Keats
Songs of spring played on my windowsill
by the delicate fingers of March rain.
Each drop mans a different instrument,
ensuring the orchestra is complete.
One taps on timpani
the pace of approaching spring.
One strums the harp
as it splashes into the stream.
One draws a sigh from the violin,
the wind directing the storm.
Their compositions breathe life into spring,
resuscitating reluctant hibernators
with improvised electric melodies
even when the sun doesn’t shine.
Night Rider
I reject the glare of my watch,
insisting it is only 6 o’clock;
it feels like I am at the end of time.
The golden halo of the sun dove
behind layers of rose and amethyst clouds
compounded and crystallized
by the pressure of the sky.
Tail lights of cars, low-hanging lanterns,
engulfed me in traffic
before they found themselves weak embers
amidst the ashes of the day.
Each one pulsed, waiting to receive
a sigh strong enough
to breathe them into a blaze
that could replace the sun in night.
When these embers died into the soot,
I was left alone, one intrepid mouse
navigating the labyrinth posed by
the mountain roads at twilight.