Elena Andrews

There is a pang of inescapable fear
As I look across the open plains rolling away from me,
Far as the eye can almost see,
A greyness settling heavy above.
It’s a sad fear,
a lonely fear,
One that doesn’t grip but sits low in my belly because
I’m a child again,
In the backseat of my parent’s car in the almost-spring of March,
Watching yellow brown patches amidst
Dirt-stained snow blur past the window
In perpetuity.
It’s dizzying.
I feel sick convincing myself that
I am not that little girl anymore,
I am not,
I am not,
I am not,
I am not and
I am,
As sure as the Iowa fields outside
Will go from bleak scruff to sturdy stalks,
As sure as the dreary ice-rain of the month that
Saw me enter the world will become the delicious warmth of June.

There is a softness outside my window,
I look up and catch a golden glow
Spreading from a break in the endless clouds.
For a moment,
My need for escape,
The fear of being lost in this place,
Is pierced by wonder for the state I call home.
For a moment,
As we crest a gentle hill,
I see beauty in the way the hazy closeness of the sky
Touches the fields on the horizon.


Elena Andrews is a third-year student from Iowa studying history, political science, and data science. She loves taking long walks, visiting coffee shops with her roommate, roaming a bookstore, and spending hours in a history museum.