Flora

Autumn of 2008, I wrote a poem. It was elementary, yes, but it was also somehow mature. It depicts the story of a leaf, Flora. The poem relates to her as a ballerina, resplendent, and searching for meaning. I found her, Flora, nestled in the piles of many leaves that riddled that North East, in October.

In 2008, I was in middle school, in the sixth grade. I was eleven. I didn't know who I was or where I could go. My daily struggles consisted of maintaining my childlike wonder while learning to bring myself to class on time. I was beginning puberty. And like the leaves, I was struggling to hold on to the joys of summer. My life was changing. I was beginning a new season.

Each season-- summer, spring, winter, and fall-- tell tales of different stages of life. And every stage has its own allure that's simply mesmerizing. This poem speaks life into daunting moments of transition. This leaf, Flora, was me. One of hundreds of girls going through similar changes in my grade, yet no one's journey was exactly the same. Like Flora, she was one in a million too. She was just like the others, yet unique. We were a combination of intricate details that were painted in the language of my poem. This poem unveils so much about myself in the past and even currently.

Honestly, I don't have a recollection of this work coming to fruition. But I know I wrote it because it's written in my atrocious handwriting. And well, my name is on it.

My penmanship reminds me of my stubborn desire to utilize the ink of a pen rather than the keys of a keyboard. Typing was always the preferred option for many of my peers. Having a laptop in class was a hot commodity. Though consistently, I chose to stick to my beloved mighty pen. When did I trade my mighty pen for sticky keys? The world may never know. I don't remember. I guess I should have written it down.

But what I do know is, the strength of my words binds my ideas. However, like the fragility of leaves they're delicate and hold an obscure beauty. What a strange idea, strong and fragile. This concept gives wings to the magnificent elegance of transformative thought and frees it to dance in the wind.

My first poem, like my first middle school fall, is exemplative of looking forward with no clear destination. New springs, new journeys, are ahead. And a young lady's adolescence is fading. This is a story that holds on to the hope of new ideals blooming while some float away, to make room for what's new.

The true beauty of the colors of fall.