Her fingers sail the channels in the oak’s bark
and when they meet yours, also seeking, they clasp
and find a sanctuary to wait out the dark
and hide another night from melancholy’s grasp.
At last on the highest branch leaves uncurl
and, still delicate, rise to meet a new sun
and, just below, hearts start to unfurl
dreaming the flat grey nights have finally passed.
Grade: 11
Washington, DC
Washington, DC
N.K. Jemisin
A world where people can live safely in their identities.
John Conway