Writing by Nora

 Dear Sadness,

I caught a glimpse of you at the funeral. You were standing by the flowers, your eyes blue and filled with tears. But when I looked at you, you ducked, as if you didn’t want anyone to see Sadness. I liked looking at you, though, with your long, wild hair and quivering chin. It was comforting.

Dear Rainbow,

I’ve only seen you about three times in my whole life. Why are you so secretive and hard to spot? Everyone loves to look at all your dazzling colors, even if they have to squint to make out your vibrant arch against the grey clouds that slowly recede as you come out. You’re some kind of bridge between opposites, like rain and sun, yet you always stay to one side of the bridge between shy and outgoing: shy. I would love to see you again, Rainbow.

Dear Snow,

You’re why I love winter. You are both beautiful when you glisten in the soft light and tough when you pack together. I love playing in you, Snow. I hope you do not mind the sled tracks we leave behind in your usually perfect surface. I still think you are one of the best types of weather.

Dear Clouds,

I think all types of you are pretty, whether you are big and fluffy like marshmallows or long and wispy. When I am high up, like on top of a hill or mountain, I can see you stretch out in all directions. I like to imagine that Clouds are like houses, and the sky is like a city where people live. You stand out against the blue sky, when you are white or grey. I think you are nice whether you are raining or not, or whether you are blocking the sun.

Dear Peppermint,

Christmas would not be the same without you. I love to suck on you secretly while making gingerbread houses, and also candy canes are one of my favorite desserts. You’re delicious and beautiful with your red and white stripes. You make the perfect decorations on Christmas trees, and it’s always great when I find you in my stocking. You’re amazing, Peppermint!

Dear Past,

I sometimes see you next to Sadness. It almost looks like you are friends, sometimes. But you’re also friends with happiness, if friendship is why I often see you and Sadness together. I guess both Happiness and Sadness can be found in the Past. Either way, I like how you can be found within any person, but you’re still mysterious.

Dear Stranger,

I do not know you. You could be kind, or mean. You could be a serial killer, or a pediatrician. You could be a writer or a cop, or anything in between. You could be anyone or anything, and to you, so could I.

Dear Imagination,

You are part of me, and everyone else, however much they use you. You are a tool, and a concept. You are anything, everything, and nothing. Although I envision you as a cheerful, happy thing or drawing, you can be as tragic and mysterious as you want. Anyone can use you however they want, in any form and for any purpose.

Dear Pencil,

You may come from a box of one hundred and fifty other Pencils just like you, but none of them have been sharpened just in between super sharp and blunt, the perfect length. None of them are the exact shade of gold that’s just between orange and yellow as you. You make my handwriting perfect, and my drawings amazing. Without you, no one would tell me how smart I was because I wouldn’t be able to write down my answers to math problems. No one would say I was a great artist, because I wouldn’t be able to draw without you. 

An alien came to a train track,

And after much thought they said,

“What is this strange centipede

With rounded legs that spin around

And shiny silver skin

Why does it screech as it moves,

And why on Mars is it so big?

What makes it stay only on the track-like things

That wind through tunnels and out again?

Why does it have two giant eyes very low on its face

And why do they sometimes flash?

Why does it stop suddenly at random places

And why must it always be so loud, making a bang and a clash?

It must be scared of the color red,

Because it always pauses like it’s frightened when it sees it

And it must love to see green,

Because it always speeds right by it.

This giant, metal centipede

Sure is very odd

 

A brown dot on the forest ground; a speck under a towering tree

A part of a plant, falling to the ground, soon to be buried forever under fallen leaves.

An acorn dropping swiftly from the sky may look like certain death,

But is it more than that, a baby's first short breath.

One day it shall be in the shadow of the bigger things no more,

Just as big as the tree it had hung on to before.

The nut that could once fit in the palm of a hand

Now towers over a full grown man.

I thank acorns because they begin as something so small and brown,

Then grow into something big and green once they fall to the ground.