My name is Scott Ferry and I help our Veterans heal as a RN, but I also write poetry. I don’t want to bore you with a manifesto, but if I had to write one to pay off my gambling debts or appease a spurned god it may sound like humming. No words. Some grunting. No, more like a March afternoon sitting on a rock closing my eyes and facing the sun. Maybe like pushing off underwater and spinning, bubbles tangling. Like cedar fingers brushing as I walk past. Like lifting up this trembling body and shaking out the hate. All our hate. Like running with my family to lick icy sweet popsickles under the sweep of July. Like cutting the roses before they fall, while they still hold all their tenderness. Like the week in October that still feels like August, wishing to stay young with our children always children. It could feel like sledding down the driveway in December, lights to make up for lack. And again the snow piling up, flying with my daughter on skis. And eating. Loving my wife’s skin and sway when I catch her humming in the kitchen. And March again, closing my eyes and reading the sun through the lids. Years sound like seconds.