[dropcap]A[/dropcap]fter Caroline Parke graduated from Magna Cum Laude from college what did she do with her summer?

She sat down and wrote a startlingly nuanced collection of poems reflecting on love and loss. She not only managed, but gracefully succeeded, in finding words for the utterly ineffable gut-wrenches and heartswells that we, as humans on this earth, usually experience in fleeting moments and then, unintentionally, let go. Caroline takes a butterfly net and captures these instances, pins them down, and holds a magnifying glass to them to examine their form while never neglecting to acknowledge their (sometimes terrible) beauty. She’s Mary Oliver with teeth.

And where is she now? Oh, you know.  Just Stanford Law. Normal.

Without further ado, (re)introducing Caroline Parke. We’ll keep publishing her poetry as long as she allows us the great honor of doing so.



We were torn:
like grass seed snatched
from husk to the heart
of a violent prairie storm.

So quickly forever vanishes.
Loss is the waning moon at sunrise,
present vestige;
at once what was, and what was once.

I imagine someday we will know

like dew
the communion of water
lost and coming again to be.

we will see
how earth coming and going on its round
rounds, meets itself being born.
How morning rain appears, not falls.
How loss is unreal, and parting.

We will know that though
there is no droplet unwrenched by the vanishing sun,

there is equally no droplet whom the ripening moon
does not retrieve into some other place,
does not lay on the waking heart
of some thirst-despairing blade.
[divider]Guest Contributor[/divider]


In addition to writing poetry, Caroline Parke loves big dogs, whiskey/porches, and traveling. She graduated from Davidson College in 2011 and is currently a student at Stanford Law School. She lives in Palo Alto with Bonnie, her red standard poodle.