Young Writers Project

my family has claimed thanksgiving.

it's our holiday, you know,

the one we do the best,

and so it must be ours. we're joking,

mostly, but it's true we do thanksgiving very well

probably overdo but it's better

in my heart, hope is a quiet thing
a pulse beneath rubble
soft as breath against marble dust.

it doesn't sing
it lingers.
it waits in the cracks where sunlight pools
on mornings the mist forgets to rise.

Today, I watched boys climbing a log stuck vertically in the sand

And girls kicking at leaves just for the fun of it,

And oh, when did our youth slip through the backdoor unnoticed,