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Fiona F. Poem
Outside the window
Trees are painted red and gold
And the yard outside
Is overflown with leaves.
Squirrels chase each other
Crunching over the orange foliage
Around the bushes
And up the tree—
I reckon the tree is two hundred years old.
A boy walks into frame
He stops at a tree
And looks up
Seemingly searching for a subject
With a camera in his hand.
Soon,
He walks away.
Outside the window
Trees are bare.
Instead of leaves,
Snow blankets the grass
With slivers of green
Peeking through.
Today the classroom is empty
Void of students,
For they have caught a cold
And stayed home for the day,
So I look outside
Leaning on my hand
And admire the frost
That covers the leafless trees and the fence
Where it cuts the school off from the parking lot.
Outside the window
Flowers have begun to pop up
Between the last remnants of melting snow
And the window has been opened
For it is stuffy in the classroom.
This time,
The boy is back.
He’s brought a friend,
A girl holding an identical camera.
They sit together
Under the tree
I imagine the boy saying,
“Two heads are better than one,”
As they take photos of the
World around them.
I notice the window says
333.
Copyright © Fiona F. | Year Posted 2023
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Fiona F. Poem
If you enter through
The rusty back gate
Messily labeled 105 and
Walk thirty steps to your right,
You will come across
A beaten path
Overgrown with forgotten weeds
And the remnant leaves of autumn.
But twenty steps into the forest,
A maple tree stands alone amongst thorny bushes.
And if you stray here from the path
Fifty-eight steps through the branches,
Listen closely.
For you can hear the hinges
Of a small wooden door
Leading to the home of an elf
Where she returns from her gathering,
Bakes acorn-pie,
And uses buttons to set the table.
If you stay silent
Little pixies
With insect-like wings–
Some with the wings of a bee
Or wings of the teal dragonfly–
Flutter between leaves,
Collecting soft foliage
To sew clothing
In their homes within the trees.
Keep your eyes peeled,
And you may see a gnome
Walking up a hill in the distance
Peeking under logs and bushes
Searching for his squirrel companion.
Then you blink,
And they are gone.
Copyright © Fiona F. | Year Posted 2023
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Fiona F. Poem
She always had one
In her hand.
“Peanut butter cups,”
She’d say,
“They help me forget.”
She spent her saved change
On peanut butter cups
At the 7-11 down the road
Every day.
She would come to class
Holding a peanut butter cup
And would sit in the second row—
Second chair—
Eating it silently.
When she was done
She would fold the wrapper
Into a little heart
And slip it into her lunchbox.
I wondered
How many hearts she had made.
Copyright © Fiona F. | Year Posted 2023
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Details |
Fiona F. Poem
Her one true love
Sits in front of her.
Or across the room—
She can’t decide yet.
She’s never talked to
The one sitting in front of her.
She thinks it’s odd,
Seeing as how they’ve sat
In the same place
For three-quarters of the year.
But she looks
At the back of his head
Monday to Friday
During sixth period.
She watches as he raises his hand
To answer a question.
As usual,
He gets it right.
The one across the room,
In the front,
Smiles at her
Monday to Friday
During sixth period.
He waits for her after class
Hoping he can walk with her.
Sometimes she doesn’t remember.
He’s looking back to smile at her now—
Until the boy sitting in front of the girl
Turns around
And looks at the clock behind her.
She’s ecstatic.
The boy across the room turns back to the front.
Copyright © Fiona F. | Year Posted 2023
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