Anna@YWP

The string of memories burns my hand,

My 12-year-old self can barely understand.

The balloon is purple, her favorite color,

She is my great-grandmother.

The air in the balloon is filled with every memory I remember,

TWO GIRLS sit on the slanted rooftop of 
a suburban house on the Amish hillside, 
ignoring the jargoning mosquitos 
buzzing around their heads and spectating the 

The river's waters flow

And the tide comes and goes,

Small and big amounts of earth’s liquid gold,

Laughter and smiles and stories untold,