Hour Three’s Poem



WINTER: the cold season between autumn and spring in northern latitudes (in the Northern Hemisphere from the winter solstice to the vernal equinox; in the Southern Hemisphere from the summer solstice to the autumnal equinox).; the colder half of the year (opposed to summer); a period like winter, as the last or final period of life; a period of decline, decay, inertia, dreariness, or adversity.

WINTER: waiting for snow. staring at TV reading schools dismissed for the day.  red marshmallow coats on children. canceled flights. weather reports spoken with monotony. lighting the menorah the second night. driving to work behind the salt trucks. papercuts from all the wrapping and unwrapping. hanging the yearly ornament for angel baby #1 and #2. begging ice to melt. wine and turkey softening passive-aggressive insult from relatives. Jazz music and frozen lampposts. lighting the menorah the eighth night. family pictures around a tree for cards meant to be sent on time but everyone knows they won’t reach the mail until well after New Years. snowflakes out of paper and strangers caroling in the neighborhood.



Title: Trust


My thoughts are held in a box

with such a strong lock that the

only way to break through would be —

no, impossible.


Unless one were to blow away an eyelash

into a perfectly straight line, or able to recover

wholly a butterfly’s broken wing.


If a bread could rise with the

right amount of cinnamon and butter —

oh what a relative measure.

No, impossible.


Perhaps if one could hug me fully without

a single touch, or make language understood

no matter the ear or tongue but, those

are hard-to-reach ideals.

Nay, impossible.


My heart is guarded in a room with

choice foods and top-notch security, and

the only way to enter is

for one to withdraw their own walls

to tell the whole truth.

I would say it’s been achieved, but —

no, impossible.

Hour One

Eden’s Labor


Glaring at the rusty clock,

measuring minutes between her contractions

with such a fragile hand she wrote them.

Her pain would be no more.


Groping into the dark of night, beginning

the thirtieth hour.

no warrior could fathom such a strength

past a normal day’s muster

Her weakness would be no longer.


Losing light and blood as

the winds and waters panted along her sides,

the forests aching with her for this small

miracle to be complete:

Their sickness would be no more.
Birds and mountains cried long before she

with a march of bruised but empty arms

a mantra along to a dream promised ages ago.

Soon their tears would be no more.


Amidst slashed mirrors and photos with

marked out faces, her deepest desire was delivered

an answer, before she knew to ask for it.

Her hate of self would be no longer.


All that was left to do in the end was

to believe.

that someone greater than she

did care, did know, did bear her burden.

bouts of screams had finally ceased, for

Her pain was now no more.

What to Write

Hello, poets and poet-wanna-be’s!

I believe I fit better in the latter category, but in my opinion, we all do in a way.

When I think of poets, I think of flowery words and famous writers from past eras. Of Emily Dickinson. Edgar Allen Poe. Shakespeare (even though I associate plays with him more so). Sometimes I wonder, with all the words that have been crafted – across calm AND chaotic waters – in all hours of the night in all the years since we’ve been able to put our thoughts on some kind of physical medium… I wonder if there’s anything left to say.

I don’t know if there is anything new, but as you can see, that is not going to stop me.


My name is Hayley Davis. I recently graduated from college so I’m one of those adults now with a degree that should help me in the real world. In certain ways it hasn’t, and in some ways it already has. Mostly so far I’ve gathered that I’m definitely still a student, though not in undergrad anymore.


So here’s to the lessons I’ll be learning for the rest of this year, this month, and this marathon. And thanks for being a part of a piece of my journey.