Trees. Green again.
But it’s 11:26 so you can’t see them.
The wind, lending a branch it’s voice,
it’s a small one. Hoarse.
Strain beyond the street that’s near,
streams of cars, gone again before they were here.
The rustling; secrets bustling between new leaves of old trees,
filled from root to crown with stories.
Don’t see, and maybe,
you’ll be able to hear them.
By Lilian Kelly, 16, John F. Kennedy School, Berlin, Germany