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Thursday, November 24, 2022

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Nurture the world, for it is all we have left – Brospar Daily News

The Young Writers Project is an independent Burlington-based nonprofit that encourages young people to write and use digital media to express themselves clearly and powerfully, and to build confidence and skills for school. , work and life.

Check out the latest issue of The Voice, the Young Writers Project’s monthly digital magazine. Click here.

Each week, VTDigger submits an article – an essay, a poem, a fiction or a non-fiction – with Young Writers Program.

YWP publishes approximately 1,000 student works each year in Vermont newspapers, Vermont Public Radio, and YWP’s monthly digital magazine, sound. Since 2006, it has provided a place for young people to write, share photos, art, audio and video, and Young Writers Project.org. For more information, please contact Susan Reid [email protected].

Young Writers Project photo by Mia Rush

CNN reporter Lauren Said-Moorhouse wrote in the Friday, July 29, 2022 headline: “Scientists say temperatures are getting ‘faster’ than their tools can calculate, and risks are mounting. But the despair a young man feels when he reads these words can be immeasurable compared to one living through his golden years. This week’s star poet and protector of the natural world, Ray Mona Spellman of the Thetford Centre, dreading the gale of their predecessors, has yet to come.

Ramona Spelman, 15, Thetford C.Walk in

Sometimes when I dream during the day,
Whether watching the sunset,
Watch the moon rise,
Or see the leaves of the autumn leaves,
I really wish I could put this on hold.
Slow it down to a thousand years or more.

I want to move with the leaves that turn,
Watch the seasons change
and improve.

I want to be ethereal.
I wanted to explore all aspects of an orange moment.
I want to create a bigger me in an instance,
Blended with fall reds, yellows and browns.

I want to watch the pumpkin blossom and grow in real time,
Take care of it and see it pay off.
I wanna sit next to her and tell her it’ll be alright
because I am there.
I guess the vines only exist to feed him.
I want to stay warm on cold nights.
I’ll wipe the cream from her veins and feed her
be the best pumpkin,
Be the best of me in turn.

I was overwhelmed by a ghostly feeling during those moments of clarity and need.
He comes and goes.
I would see an apple tree full of juicy fruit ready to be picked.
Right next to that tree is that nameless ghost emotion.
Every time I start looking for meaning in it, it wilts like autumn grass.
I saw a buttery midnight–
My friends and I sat around the fire,
Bake cookies with aluminum foil —
It’s still here.
as the essence of life.

I was born in unhappy times and my life may be coming to an end.
I might even see it there.
I want to do my best to see it through to the end.
absorb the rest of our time and remember it
Surprise our children.
I want to walk in the forest and examine every birch,
pine,
or the fallen logs I encountered,
I want to document his many problems,
much more complex than any machine.

I want to sit next to life like an old friend
Feel this illusion forever,
This feeling of give and take.
I want to feel that generosity and forgiveness forever.
This feeling of needing absolute silence,
Purely out of respect for all creatures older than me.
as the essence of life.

Plants and animals should be as prolific as we are,
is not it?

But no matter how well you raise your pumpkin,
Wipe the cream from your veins and wrap your jacket around
In a cold January, a pumpkin is a pumpkin,
it will become a seed,
And then more squash.
as the essence of life.

The same miracle of death happened in Autumn Leaves.
Leaves don’t die in any bland nature like pumpkins.
They do not produce seeds;
They don’t bother with these issues.
Instead, they will burst and shout their colors in the valley.

So the only question that remains
Honestly describe this hallucination…
If you want, I will find out or I will affirm…
This ghost is called the “problem”.

Here is my question for you:

Are we going to die as stubbornly as the fire of autumn leaves?
Or will we die humbly and watch our children live?

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