"Good things come to those who wait..." In this case that good thing is a hot apple pie, and you have described so well the tedious peeling process, a true exercise in patience and determination. I could feel it! Interesting descriptions of the minute actions you are taking with your hands, and many beautiful nods to the fall season.
amini, you are good enough! Grades are not everything; they are not what make us who we are. Have you seen Sayornis p.'s "Things to Remember"? I think they might have some words of wisdom for you: youngwritersproject.org/explore/writing/things-remember-pt-1
That hit hard. I totally remember feeling a similar thing when I was your age. I wont lie and say that despite the changes in my life fall has stayed the same, but even when you are on your own, you can still make space to participate in your childhood rituals. Maybe writing poems about them is one of those ways :)
"And all that is left is not even our own memories." that last line especially when taken in conjunction with the first is really intriguing! Its definitely making me think. Is the "green paint" a memory of nature? Is the ivy reclaiming even that?
"Good things come to those who wait..." In this case that good thing is a hot apple pie, and you have described so well the tedious peeling process, a true exercise in patience and determination. I could feel it! Interesting descriptions of the minute actions you are taking with your hands, and many beautiful nods to the fall season.
amini, you are good enough! Grades are not everything; they are not what make us who we are. Have you seen Sayornis p.'s "Things to Remember"? I think they might have some words of wisdom for you: youngwritersproject.org/explore/writing/things-remember-pt-1
Oo, that's a good one! I'll have to try it sometime. :)
Your work inspires me, I'm unbelievably proud that you enjoy the rest of our work!
That hit hard. I totally remember feeling a similar thing when I was your age. I wont lie and say that despite the changes in my life fall has stayed the same, but even when you are on your own, you can still make space to participate in your childhood rituals. Maybe writing poems about them is one of those ways :)
"The apple disposes of its disguise, much like a caterpillar leaving the comfort of its silky cocoon"
I love this poem so much.
"And all that is left is not even our own memories." that last line especially when taken in conjunction with the first is really intriguing! Its definitely making me think. Is the "green paint" a memory of nature? Is the ivy reclaiming even that?
"Droplets flop like a panting salmon" What a line! This whole poem is full to bursting with such textured imagery!
talking with my sister
Thank you!