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