by CAROLINE DINH (United States)
Issue 2.1 April 2020
My neighborhood sits on the slope of a hill adorned by
oaks, arches of autumn flurrying red and gold when
pumpkin season arrives. It has not yet come but
the leaves outside are beginning to curl crisp and brown.
Sometimes I like to collapse infinity
into a single point in time I label “now.”
Pretend that nothing ever existed until this moment, this “now”
& that it will all cease to exist in a breath. That the fragile globe is a
swiveling top teetering on one point before tipping over
and in this “now” the trees look
oh-so-green. Oh-so-green. Greener than anything
I’ve known to exist so I memorize the chill
of pre-pumpkin-season and the exact shade of lime
that dots my forest of Arden. Memorize the iciness of
autumn in my throat so that one day I can breathe it
onto my children. Kiss them with the mellowness of fall,
and so I take it all in. Just in case. For
I don’t know when it will burn.
Caroline Dinh, 16, is a high school junior from the D.C. area who likes writing science fiction and strange poems. Aside from writing, she enjoys painting, programming, and proving that engineering and art aren't mutually exclusive.