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Saint Agnes School is proud to offer a Learning Center with a full time special education teacher in order to meet the needs of students with Individualized Education Programs

  • 02/01/21Congratulations to Sophie Z. for the 2021 Scholastic Arts and Writing Award

    2021 Scholastic Arts and Writing Award - Regional Winner

     

    Sophie Z. the Class of 2022

     

    Cold

    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.

     

    The Houseplant

    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.