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Challenge: Write a sonnet
To be like Frost this poem should start with I,
But having failed in that respect, I think
That imitating him I shall not try
Until into the next small song I sink.
Another piece of flattery sincere
Would be to show all nature’s gifts unfurled;
Yet plagiarism is a constant fear
When writing on the same part of the world.
West-running brooks and birches and beech trees
Should all possess a hidden meaning sly,
But Death and Life and Love and God, oh please!
They’re repetitious and will never fly.
And now another sonnet I’ll attempt
In Frost’s style despite the above lament.
Challenge: Imagine one of your favorite places 100 or 200 years ago.
I would never tell Pa this, but I’m not too fond of farming. I know he wouldn’t be happy to hear this as he believes farmers are the foundation of this country. And, of course, 1917 is a big agricultural year. But since my brother left to fight in this world war, I’ve been doing all the farming with Pa, and it isn’t all that I’ve dreamed of. I used to hate working inside with Ma. All she ever did was complain about women and voting, always just having to cook or clean or sew, but working outside, I’ve learned, isn’t too much fun either. Life is slow these days, and that’s why I like coming out here, writing in my journal, and thinking about things.
This tree that I come to has been here for as long as I can remember. I come here every night to draw pictures, to write stories, to think, to climb. I’ve never known a better place. It’s definitely my favorite. It’s the tallest pine tree I’ve seen in my life – probably one of the tallest in all of Vermont. Its limbs are gigantic, perfect for sitting or climbing. It’s like a playground made of wood, and it’s just across the meadow from my very own home. I know how lucky I am to have a place like this. I’d like to imagine that it will be here forever, but I know one day it will be cut down. Pa tried last summer, but I was not going to let that happen.
I remember him coming out here with his ax. He always wanted the tree gone. He thought it took up too much space, that it was just an eyesore. He didn’t know the value it had for me or my brother, how many times I walked out here and ducked under the barbed wire fence just to climb it. I looked out the window that day and saw that Pa was already so close to the tree that I thought he would have the ax in its trunk by the time I reached him. But I sprinted behind him through the heat – in my best dress, too. I got to him and grabbed the ax before he had the chance to swing it back. Pa was angry, madder than I’d ever seen him. We fought for so long out there. I spent so long fighting for the tree. Finally, I jumped up to one of its limbs, and I climbed as high as I could. I stood in that tree until dark when Pa finally went inside to eat. I wasn’t hungry, though. I could’ve stayed there forever.
When I got inside, both my parents had a storm waiting for me. Ma was so torn that I’d gone against Pa like that, and that I had ruined my dress. Pa, well, he was just angry about everything. I knew how mad they were; I knew what I did was against everything my parents had taught me, but I still knew in my mind that it was worth the fighting. That tree was go-
ing to stay there as long as I could make it stay there, maybe even as long as I lived. That was something I wished for, but I knew I couldn’t have a handle on everything.
Some of my best paintings were made here, as well as my best stories. Some of my favorite memories took place here, and that’s why it has so much meaning. I sometimes imagine 90 or 100 years from now, another girl will live here and fall in love with this tree. She won’t know what it meant to a 14-year-old farm girl from 1917, but maybe she will make memories here of her own.
Or maybe the tree will be gone by then, only a few memories left for people to enjoy. But I know one thing for sure, this tree will always hold memories, this tree will always mean something to someone.
Read the complete story at http://youngwritersproject.org/node/5563.