The Drama Clubs produces 5 performances each year between the upper and lower school
Sophie Z. the Class of 2022
I image the apple tree
My parents planted in our backyard
Years after I die.
I lay below it, transparent,
As she grows inch after inch
Over the course of many years—
Unbothered by the bottomless pit
Of time in which
Her seed is planted.
Her leaves wave at me
When she begins to bear fruit,
Round and as red as my blood;
Her roots breaking the chains
Of the soil and clawing at the golden sun
That spits down upon her.
I reach for her woody arms
As they inch towards me—
And I like to think she is reaching back.
But as rain drops tap on my window—
The only freedom from my earthy prison—
I understand that she will never know of my proximity.
And that while I blow away with every coming breeze,
We will one day cross paths
On our journey to a cold, dark place.
Today I looked at the plant
That my mother gave me,
Tucked thoughtfully away
In the corner of my bedroom.
I noticed her leaves, like open palms
Sleeping in the morning sun,
Waiting for a hand to hold—maybe mine.
And I wished that I could reach into time,
A black, velvety bag, and pull out
The broken pieces of its glimmering body.
Such as the time I let a stranger
Crawl inside my skull like an earworm—
Ricocheting orders from temple to temple
And clamping my jaw shut when I wanted to say no.
And the many times after when I allowed
My thoughts to escape from beneath my eyelids,
And dance down my cheeks in a watery parade.
I’d like to grab ahold of the good memories—
Coins trapped at the bottom of the bag—
And hold one up to my eye in observation.
I’d smile as it rips me from my sneakers
Back to that cold spring afternoon,
When all but the cicadas were silent.
And I wouldn’t think of you once
As I’d gaze out of the kitchen window
To see six brown hens standing in
My garden, swirled into a puddle of
Blue and green.
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