Season of the Wraiths by Jeyoung Kyun (15, Georgia)

Soon, all the cherry blossom trees that bloom 
in the spring will winnow away. The bushes 
filled with small fireflies will dim with the night
and the silly children who used to catch them 
will turn into ghosts. ​

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                                        A small garden in the front 
yard, flowering with white lilies and daisies 
will wither with the wraiths of my mother’s 
favorite flower, the scent that once swelled 
frozen by winter. The white window will tarnish 
into brown while the green ivy leaves may thrust 
through the red bricks, and the doors colored 
with hues of origami craft will leach off.  ​

By the front door, my sister’s favorite yellow 
doormat will dim away with time. The blazing 
chandelier and the fireplace that once blossomed 
the house with warmth will fade. On the brown 
carpet, childhood toys - the stuffed polar bear, 
pieces of plastic Lego blocks and a chess board 
are now untouched and will sleep. The stuffed 
bunny which was gifted for my birth will turn 
gray. Across my room, my sister’s favorite piano 
will burn all over with the piles of seasons. 
The bathtub and sink whose memories bloom
and melt, the maplewood stairs, the door,
the house that looks colossal in a child’s eye 
will wither with the swelling moon, ever so lightly, 
daily and nightly and in little ways, some remnants 
stay.
​