→ Roars & Whispers
Providence Sr. HS 

A Letter to Father Time

Sitting beneath a clay-streaked September sky
shattered by the arms of naked trees,
I understand that I am young until June. The trickle
of my neighborhood stream whistles, and I shift towards it.

I refuse to ache as if calamity hasn’t become etched
into every tooth in my mouth. If I grind my teeth hard enough,
I will collapse into the echo of last autumn, of youth.
I make my way up the hill. Underneath my feet, ribs of trees crack.

In the fraying edges of January, I do my best to ignore
the burning rooms I mistook for immaculate childhood. Instead, I remember
fall’s scarlet horizon. I trace the hollows of a frozen creek bed.

In May’s staleness, I sit on the roof.
I can see my stream from here.