By L. Quattrochi
Remember rocks
you used to climb
the year that you were seven?
The earth and fields were nothing then
and every tree was heaven.
Remember birds
divided the moon
too murky for their flight?
Or the universe about your room
in swaths of golden light.
L. Quattrochi is nineteen years old and has been writing poetry for a few years now. She would ideally like to live on a secluded river island. Find her on Instagram @Dia.thepoet
