The Poet

Nyia is twelve and writes poetry, like this one:

“Magenta”
by Nyia
The lilacs gently swift through the spring morning
breeze.
The borders of a foggy flashback.
The nervous knots in your stomach unwinding.
The color of my comforter, I sweetly dream on.
The sky on a foggy day, right after a thunderstorm.
The color of frostbite on your body before the pain
starts to bunch together.
The background of a couple on the beach during a windy
sunset.
The exciting high winds and rushing snow all around a
snow globe.
The pebbles in a pond swiveling around and unraveling
their magnificent beauty.
The temperature decreasing and making foggy windows
freeze.
The outline of an eclipse every time the moon and sun
combine.
The hushed tones of sweet old ladies’ light voices
singing.