In March, our hearts begin to unfurl.

When the first peony is coaxed out of dark soil,

you will find an endless thing inside. It will be

warm, still soft, still aching. On rainy days,

it will watch girls in lakes, making sure

they are still there to whisper loves me, 

loves me not, the seams of their hearts hung low. 

It is something I have yet to find a name for—

It could be the girl watching the eclipse 

and not knowing what to do with the sun in her hands;

Maybe in summer, it’s everybody coming back as a 

poem, the curvature of the spine and 

hollowed belly redrawn with tenderness, splitting

over the horizon like a promise. Or a secret, like

looking up and crying because you’re so sure

you belong in the sky. Grief, my peony, perhaps 

for the rebirth we cannot have, and in time,

grief for the home we do. 

Rue Huang is a writer from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and Youth Poet Laureate of her city. When she’s not writing journal entries on bus rides, you can find her consuming her body weight in blueberries, playing jazz piano, or running competitively. Her Instagram is @rue.huang.