By: Sierra Morgan

the land melts by day,
binds back together, freezing by night.
Snowbanks come undone in the sunlight,
icebergs sail like sinking ships in mud puddles.
This is not supposed to happen.

By now,
the sap is running, too early
instead of waiting, dormant,
for the cadence of the temperature swings in March.
The once vibrant witch hazel flowers
have lost their bold yellow faces
to crumpled fibrous brown bones.

The earth a pale palette of browns, grays, greens,
white snow stained with sand,
like an old tablecloth, tattered at the edges,
retreating and fraying with time.

A sprinkle of confused raindrops land on my cheeks,
the sky’s tears melting from their crystalline state as snow clouds.
Soggy, damp, the ground caves with the weight,
boots slurp in the mud, when they rise with each step.

White pines brush the lowest branches of the oak,
Who stands like a brittle statue,
Until the wind rocks the trunk gently, branches sway.
The slender paper birch whose scrolls of bark flake gently,
Sparse branches evenly fixed upon the trunk.

The air is still dry,
deep breaths in carry a cold nip.
Silence protrudes in the forest,
tree limbs curved in serene arcs,
tranquility, a blanket like the snow.
Dreariness births a pause of calm,
hurls me a chance for reflection.
This kind of beauty feels different,
where through the drabness, I begin to discover the unseen,
like exploring who I really am,
I am looking to see the deeper layers of these forests.
And when I find them,
I’m finding a part of myself.

Sierra Morgan lives in Alna, Maine; she is 13 years old. Historical fiction is her favorite genre to read, and she loves history. She also has an interest in genealogy, and she loves hearing people tell stories. She enjoys hiking, canoeing, biking, and she has recently recently learned to row. She loves writing letters too.