Anna Philippe

Where the Hummingbirds Sing 

at the cabin 
where the hummingbirds 
sing. Where the deer scurry through 
desiccated leaves from the near backyard to the 
neverends of the woods. Where the creaking birch floors 
are the only thing that break the quietude. They add character, she claimed. Where the water
cascades down the rocky hill into a tepid pool deep enough to drown you if you survived the
Where civilization is distant, dozens of miles away. 
Desolate ghost towns: they’re easy to forget about. 
Where the lake is as smooth as black glass, as flat as 
a mirror. Where no fish swim because no sun 
shines and no life lives where no sun shines. Where 
the brittle trees sway in the thin air to an 
unsettling degree. They are more like branches 
than trees. Where the grass is uncombed and crisp, 
hardly green. Back at the cabin where the 
hummingbirds sing and everything else listens.

A Barren Shadow 

The grass was uncombed and parched, 
The trees, leafless and brittle. 
Corroded pennies, neglected wishes drowned in the lukewarm well, Tarnished by time. 
The steel slide, once shiny and silver was now 
Rusted and dented all over. 
The seesaw lay stationery, 
Roots and foliage suffocating its grounded right side. But the swingset was feasibly the most dilapidated. 
Rotting and splintered wood, once a practical seat 
Now dangled from one side. 
It was surprising that even one of the 
Decayed chains could still support it, 
As though it was permanently shackled to the 
Chunk of weathered pine. 
The sound of the whistling wind and creaking chains Harmonized. 
An eerie lullaby, 
Sending the joy that once filled this playground 
Into an eternal sleep. 
It is now just a ghostly form, 
A barren shadow of what it once was.

Once More 

When the last rays of golden sunlight Kiss the tired horizon. 
When the greens and blues of daylit landscape Melt into deep grays
under the moonlight. When the fish loll and let the 
Tepid stream and cool breeze 
Carry them northward. 
Everything, everyone is veiled. 
The trees are just silhouettes 
And the lullaby of the robins evaporates Into the velvety night sky. 
Even the stars and moon are blanketed under A dense layer of fog. 
Shadows are swallowed by 
Nightfall cocoons me; 
A temporary solace, so comforting It feels like it could last forever. 
But soon enough, 
My alarm rings: 
The robins sing again, 
The trees awaken, 
And we do it once more.

About the Author: Anna Philippe currently attends the Institute for Collaborative Education in New York City. She enjoys writing poetry, creative and personal essays, and novels. She hopes to use her writing to positively influence others!