By Lark Wicinas
How can they stand such a strange time?
the trees I mean.
The time when everything is gray.
Only just a while ago the air was alight with red, orange, and gold leaves floating around,
But then the rakers came, busy as bees and took it all away.
And now you stand, just a skeleton painted on an evening sky
Waiting, for the first few white flakes to come, dancing
To rest upon your heavy branches.
Branches filled with memories, or sights.
Sights of what has passed by your magnificent roots
that stretch under the shadow of your proud figure.
You stand tall and mighty as the newly born wind rattles your dull twigs.
How can you stand the cold, tension, waiting, -for what?
How can you survive the grayness?
Lark Wicinas, written at age 12. Published in Silkworm 3
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