First, the plastic tractors.
Once, they raced, wheels churning excitedly over asphalt—
Down the hill,
Mounted by me and my whooping friends—
Now the tractors sit,
neglected and forlorn
In the artificial dusk
Beneath the great fir tree.
Wheels sunk into black mulch
Rancid water pooling
in their plastic seats.
Draped with cobwebs,
Like a plastic sheet.
Sitting, dead, in the great shadow

Of the fir tree,
With the rest of my childhood.

Originally published in KidSpirit Online for the Numbers & Symbols issue.

Will Hodgkinson was in 9th grade when he wrote this poem. He lives in Massachusetts, and his interests include poetry and writing.

Artwork by Merrell Hatton created when she was 16 years old. She is from Phoenix, Arizona.