Autumn Blaze

Suzanne Morris

June 7, 2026

—for Carol Athey

You would have been gratified

to see my artist friend arrive

this morning

to set up her easel out

on the front drive,

a few feet from our prized

Autumn Blaze Maple. 

I still remember that day

we found the tree for sale

at the big nursery

in Nacogdoches

a giant among the

rows of gawky saplings,

its branches fulsome

and graceful,

how readily we exchanged 

an admiring glance:

Price was no object. 

We hauled the tree home

along with high hopes

in the back of the pickup truck

25 miles of me watching

through the back window

anxious as a new mother as we

bumped along the highway,

fledgling maple leaves

flying off in the wind.

That was six autumns ago,

or has it been seven now?

The Autumn Blaze Maple

is the only one of all our trees

turning colors this year

as I remarked to the artist yesterday.

This morning she has

loaded up her easel in the

trunk of her car, and

come to see for herself.

I peer over her shoulder

as she dunks a large brush in water

then dredges up pigment

in various colors

her focus shifting from

tree to palette to picture plane,

her brush becoming

a magic wand:

diving, lifting, then diving again

conjuring up a shimmering montage

of green, russet, sienna and umber

the wet colors

blending into

the promise of leafy contours.

She will leave

this layer of paint

to dry for a day or two

then apply more color

to bring out the depth and richness

she envisioned when she began

as we began, envisioning

how stately the tree 

would look one day

rising nearby our front drive,

but never envisioning your

not living long enough to

peer with me over the shoulder

of the artist

as she took up her brush

to paint it.

Before becoming a poet, Suzanne Morris was a novelist, with eight published works between 1976 and 2016.  Many of her early poems were featured in her fiction, to advance the underlying themes.  Since 2020, she has contributed poems to several anthologies, and has been published at a variety of online poetry journals, including The Texas Poetry Assignment.  A native Houstonian, Ms. Morris has resided in Cherokee County for 17 years.

Farm Tree

Thomas Hemminger

June 7, 2026

An ancient post oak 

guards a one-time homestead, 

hidden root-cellar, 

and bricked-up cistern. 

The gnarled trunk 

sturdy, yet scarred from 

years of Windom’s weathering

and claws that scratch and climb, 

is stronger than it ever was. 

The boughs stretched high

into the Texas sky,

shelter sparrows and wrens, 

and the kildeer nests 

in the shaded prairie grass below. 

The wind-blown bass chimes 

hanging from the branches, 

make the clouds our cathedral,

and turn farm fields to hallowed halls. 

Thomas Hemminger is an elementary music teacher living in Dallas, Texas. His work has been published locally in Dallas, as well as in The Wilda Morris Poetry Challenge, Texas Poetry Assignment, and The Poetry Catalog. His personal hero is Mr. Fred Rogers, the creator of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. It was through America’s favorite “neighbor” that Thomas learned of the importance of loving others, and of giving them their own space and grace to grow.

Floating at the Treeline of Huisache

Clarence Wolfshohl

June 7, 2026

Yellow blooms across Olmos Basin, clouds of yellow

At eye level as we cruise along stilted highway on

YELLOW yellow yellow yellow YELLOW

YELLOW YELLOW YELLOW

yellow yellow yellow

yellow

YELLOW yellow yellow yellow

yellow yellow yellow

Clarence Wolfshohl has been active in the small press as writer and publisher for over fifty years, publishing poetry and non-fiction in many journals, both print and online.  Recently, he has published  Play-Like (Alien Buddha Press, 2025) and Wolf Tree and Agave (Spartan Press, 2026), a correspondence in poetry with Larry D. Thomas.

The Piney Woods

Mary Fogel

June 7, 2026

There are Tree Men here

who know all about 

the nature and nurture

of pines

To me

they remain

as mysteries 

swaying up there

in winds I cannot see

or feel

so far below

the dance

On a clear day they 

bob

the long straight trunk

winnowing at the top

with a whisper

of hello

until the wind 

whips up

The gentle tease

is over now

but giant living organisms

heaving to and fro

and oh my god

I remember the sound

when one hit the ground

and splintered

 into pieces

A sonic echo reaching into

our bed

saying awaken now

the sky is falling

while the Tree Men assure us

their bottoms are filled

with water

so only the top will topple

maybe

if you’re very very

lucky

I’m learning to make friends

with 

giant neighbors 

holding some

serious

gravitas

I pray for their root balls

to hold on tight

that the sway will

be contagious

allowing me to move

with the wind

Mary Fogel is a poet and late-blooming adventurer.  She retired from the counseling field and child advocacy in 2018.  In 2023, she faced the loss of her husband of 18 years and of her best friend.  Although she had been writing poetry for 20 years, her focus on writing became central to her recovery.  Mary has been fortunate to fall in love again, find a writing group,  and begin a new life in 2025 that involves a great deal of joy and gratitude.

Texas Trees

Jim LaVilla-Havelin

June 7, 2026

we only know what we have seen

grown up in the East, first time I saw crepe myrtle

thought it was lilac, expected

that sweetness

got it from the mountain laurel’s grape kool-aid

while the crepe myrtle

mystified as they bloomed

many times

across the season

thought the lissome yellow of huisache was 

forsythia, a harbinger of northern spring

listened, shocked, when someone called them

“trash trees” 

couldn’t understand live oaks as oaks — no comparing to

those serrated big-leaf

beauties of our other lives 

mesquites, though, no mistaking them 

come to love mesquites — twisted, turning, fallen, still growing

feathery yellow-green at first, podded, perfect against 

massive sky,

for poems, too

we only know what we have seen

until we live 

under these trees 

Jim LaVilla-Havelin is an educator, editor, community arts activist, and the author of eight poetry books, including 2025's A Thoreau Book and Mesquites Teach Us to Bend. He co-edited the University of Houston Press volume on Rosemary Catacalos, serving as her literary executor.

A creative writing teacher for 50 years, LaVilla-Havelin has taught diverse populations, from juvenile correctional centers to senior programs and high schools. He served as Poetry Editor for the San Antonio Express-News for over a decade and has coordinated San Antonio’s National Poetry Month for 18 years. He received the 2019 San Antonio Distinction in the Arts.

Dark Camp

Chris Ellery

June 7, 2026

When it came time to make our camp, we boys 

looked always for a clearing in the woods, 

as we were taught, a circle circumferencing 

a center far enough away from trees 

that sparks could pose no danger rising from 

a campfire kindled with the rich pine knots 

or cedar bark and fed the seasoned limbs 

of storm-stripped hickory and oak, which we 

watched burning, burning to a glowing bed 

of coals. There were some evenings following

a long day’s hike when we could find no space 

to serve our fire. Then we would drop from sheer 

fatigue in woods so dense we sparked no flame, 

we saw no stars, we slept on roots like logs, 

we said, beneath the high and mighty arms.

Chris Ellery is the author of six poetry collections, including Elder Tree, which is strongly influenced by British and American Romanticism and Celtic spirituality. Longtime professor of English at Angelo State University, now retired, he is a member of the Texas Institute of Letters, the Fulbright Alumni Association, and Phi Kappa Phi.