I wrote this in 7th grade. So bare with me, still one of my favorites.
|When the breeze blows, I smell the scent
of pine trees and the fresh tree sap.
I close my eyes and hear the wind calling me
taking me to a calming place.
Then, the breeze suddenly stops;
I couldn't smell the pine nor the fresh sap.
Four years has past since that breeze has blown.
I was outside under a tree writing this poem.
As I sit, the same gentle breeze blows, but,
there was something different; I couldn't
pick it up- what the difference was, but I
looked at the oak tree; it was swaying with
the gentle breeze, as if a man and a woman
were at a ball dancing, but the dance was so
gentle and beautiful I watched in awe.
The autumn leaves fell off the giant oak,
and fell to the ground softly and greatly.
The oranges and reds of the leaves looked like
an oil painting of a crimson sunset.
Then the breeze stopped; everything stopped.
Everything was silent. I sat until sunset- waiting,
waiting for the breeze to return,
but, it never returned.