Three Sides Enclosed, the Fourth Open to a Wash of the Weather

Tenant of Culture Jenine Marsh Amy Stober Bri Williams

"The carousel spins, painted horses chasing dreams in a circle, where the horizon folds into a never-ending now. We sit, grasping the reins of our desires, as the calliope whispers in melodies only we can hear.

Beneath the canopy, shadows dance, and we chase the tails of our ambitions, each turn a new world, each spin a tether to the real.

At the wishing well, pennies drop, silver dreams sinking into the abyss. We peer over the edge, faces mirrored in ripples of what might be.

Whispers echo, soft as promises, and we cast our hopes into the depths, imagining a world where wishes float back to us, granted in silence.

In the handbag’s depths, a space of secrets, maps to hidden memories scrawled on scraps of yesterday. Keys, trinkets, a fragment of a song, remnants of a self we carry, clutching our identities close, patchwork quilts of past and potential.

Draped in the cloth of our fantasies, costumes of our becoming we stand before mirrors, reflections of who we wish to be, tangled in the warp and weft of now. In the fabric's fold, a sigh against the skin, soft as hope, strong as reality, woven into the everyday.

Here, where the carousel halts, the well is dry, and bags lie open, we find our dreams are but shadows, dancing on the walls of what is real."

—Connor McNicholas