What does it mean to be wise? What does it mean to mentor? In a world for the young, does it mean anything?
Old trees in our autumnal springs, we’ve been through all the weathers, wind blowing off our bark skins, the hot sun burning our green. into a fragile brown crisp.
Among the hustle and bustle of the leaves and in the hallways of the woods, we see you repeating all our mistakes: little seedlings spreading roots too fast through the loam for the feel of the cold earth on your stringy new toes.
Can you smell the honeysuckle growing like a blanket around you and enjoy the buddings of your first springs?
Your leaves are thirsty and proud, but consider the perils of social climbing. You hear frenetic twitters on the roof, but once you climb you will see only tar and gravel and broken shingles.
Listen to the clouds instead. Work hard just to stand tall.
Prompt: write a poem like Keats’ “To Autumn” with a rhetorical question, a references to a season, and incorporating all the senses: sight, sound, taste, touch and smell.