My Grandmother’s Tree

Minds are like trees.

They grow and grow

With leaves like thoughts

And branches like memories

All clinging to the strength of the trunk.


Every thought wants to grow

Longing to fly

But some never soar

Just drift down to the ground

To be buried in the snowfall of another year.


My grandmother’s tree is old.

So many leaves have fallen

The memories fading

As the trunk is infested

By the insects of old age.


My grandmother reaches and claws

Trying to grab all the memories and thoughts

That slip through her fingers

As if she knows

That this is her final autumn.


Almost gone now

My grandmother’s tree is barren.

Her final leaves are waiting to fall

Last tattered remnants

Of the sapling she once was.


Soon, the snow will come.


--Senna Levy, grade 6, John May Middle School