Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences in newspapers, before live audiences and online. YWP also publishes an annual anthology and The Voice, a digital magazine with YWP’s best writing, images and features. More info: youngwritersproject.org or contact YWP at sreid@youngwritersproject.org or 802-324-9538.
By Emilia Perry
Age 15, Thetford
In Vermont,
the middle of spring means everything is brown:
the mud that churns and splashes under tires on the dirt roads;
the bark of the newly-budding trees,
wet with the rain of flowers promised to come;
the grass that remains pale and scratchy,
newly free of its heavy winter coating.
A walk in the woods brings new life
to this time so devoid of color,
though it does not come in the form of visible hues.
It comes from the chirps and songs of birds
that have returned and brought with them such pleasant noise,
breaking the silence of the winter months
that were as barren as the cold landscape itself.
It comes from the sticky-sweet sap
oozing from the maple trees,
collected in metal buckets
to later coat your tongue and breakfast —
thick and rich like honey.
It comes from the smell
that is so strongly the smell of spring.
It’s difficult to articulate,
but emotes the new life emerging before your eyes.
It makes you appreciate the brown even more,
because it’s evolved to be a promise —
of the flowers’ painted faces,
soon to bloom and greet the sun,
and of the lush green grass,
rolling over the hills and fields
like a soft, new carpet.
You’re now content to wait for the visible color,
already feeling it swirling in the air, through the trees, around you,
in the form of a pleasant breeze
that lifts the hairs on the back of your neck.
By Eden Anne Bauer
Age 14, Hanover
I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long —
I’ve been so busy, and you know time flies.
With work and outside interests,
I haven’t had any time to rest.
But today as my fingers mechanically typed,
I noticed the reflection of the pink, yellow,
and orange-streaked sky
in the corner of the computer screen,
and saw my forlorn, furrowed brow,
and deep-in-thought, creasing frown,
and suddenly remembered
how we used to talk on the phone at night —
a seemingly old form of communication nowadays.
Yet the chatter of two close friends
seemed to light up the room
and warm my heart,
every time, without fail.
Now, we seldom call
except to ask a question about homework.
I see you at school every day,
bursting with everything I want to say:
How was your weekend?
Here’s the story of mine!
Did I tell you yet about that time…?
But class starts, and ends,
and we scurry to our next class,
faces lighting up as we pass each other in the hallway,
briefly, once or twice throughout the day.
I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long —
really, I have no excuse.
At midnight, when my homework’s done,
I sometimes look through my old photobook
and am always reminded of you,
of how we talked and played
when we met in third grade,
of how we always made each other’s day a little better
with a smile or a simple “hello.”
We never seem to have enough time now though.
I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long.
I promise tomorrow I’ll run up
and give you a hug, or at least a great big smile,
in those five minutes between classes,
even if it makes no sense to anyone.
It doesn’t matter, and I don’t care,
because I know you’ll understand
and that’s enough for me —
as long as you know
I’ll always be there.