- Elisa Hustedt
Her brown hair twisted in the wind like the stems of the pumpkins she picked out
Her little hands curiously traced the ridges and bumps of the orange fruits
As she attempted to lift one bigger than her head
her laugh never faded like the clouds in the sky had.
When she drank the hot cocoa we bought from the market
her cheeks turned a ripe apple red.
The thick brim of the wool hat sitting snug on her head
struggled to cover her eyes
but I still saw them peek up at me
as she asked me to hold her hand