i.        North

Colors frame defining moments.

The trees are orange and

I can almost feel my lungs fill with the amber air of your childhood: the fiery tinglings of

playing war and throwing sticks and coronating boyishness– of pressing your little toes against

sturdy boulders and declaring yourself king of the vibrant hums of the woods.

There are mansions wedged between those trees now (the boulders are cracked in half),

and I can hear the police sirens in Hazleton, of you

inhaling and claiming “the neighborhood wasn’t always this rough” as you lead us

down crumbling sidewalks;

the fall air is stale here

with the heaviness of what used to be

and I try to breathe it in–

I try to breathe it in

for your sake.

~Written by Hannah

This is an excerpt of a four-part poem I am currently working on. Thank you so much for reading; comments are greatly appreciated. 🙂