Two felled trees
dropped into her kitchen,
into the roof,
confused and destroyed like
beached whales,
the roots left wanton, open
a wind passing
through their still dirt-soaked

For many months, she
coaxes the roots into
the ground again,
towels off the moss seeping into
the softened trunks.
She weaves the trees together until they are
alive again, breathing, breathing
beneath her fingers,
conjoined twins.

She succeeds. They grow out
of the hole, sinking their vines deep into
the ceramic tiles of her dining room,
stretching their limbs wide over,
filling the ceilings until
she has to take down the chandelier.
They are living,
finally, for the
first time.

It grows out of the house, her
creation, it grows into the front lawn,
it crushes the small bricks, plaster beneath
itself and

she moves out,
runs, desperately, desperately,
from it, from them.

They scale buildings,
twining up bare, concrete skeletons,

in search of her.

Felicia Yang, Age 17, Grade 12, Hunter College High School, Gold Key

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