The grove of royal white birches I’ve always loved Casts intricate shadows On the pavement below. Black on black Like deer running at night. A young fern sprout Catches my eye. Something shines But nothing moves. An old plastic bag Flutters limply in the breeze From the high limb of a pine Like winter’s flag of surrender. The rhythmic snap Of the bag Is drowned out By the soft song Of a faraway Chickadee. Isabelle Zeaske, 10Minneapolis, Minnesota
Poetry-The-Seasons
Spring
The grove of royal white birches I’ve always loved Casts intricate shadows On the pavement below. Black on black Like deer running at night. A young fern sprout Catches my eye. Something shines But nothing moves. An old plastic bag Flutters limply in the breeze From the high limb of a pine Like winter’s flag of surrender. The rhythmic snap Of the bag Is drowned out By the soft song Of a faraway Chickadee. Isabelle Zeaske, 10Minneapolis, Minnesota
Whirling into Whispering Wind
I fall into a golden, crisp carpet of leaves watching as the wind whirls them into a painting of bronze butterflies their wings rustle and I am by the sea again remembering the summer I love the aroma of sweet-scented cinnamon sprinkled on warm pumpkin pie crunchy apples and maple leaves brushing the air with a wash of maple syrup As Mom calls the leaves crackle under my boots and I whirl into the whispering wind Hannah Dastgheib, 11Newport Coast, California
