Young Writers Project

It’s morning in Paris,

and the city still sleeps,

though the sun has long risen

and the cat has long been stretched in the light

that washes over the quiet courtyard.

It’s summer in Paris,

When I think of the color green, I think of the trees behind my school. In kindergarten, when kids were cruel and words hurt more than sticks or stones, the trees were there.

Why can the wind

Be blowing

That piece of grass down

One moment

And not the next?

There’s a scientific answer

I bet

And usually that’s what I’m looking for.

But it felt poetic that way,