Poem

  The crickets chirp, sing to the starry night. The floorboards creak and moan of old age. The wallpaper stands rigid, but cracked and peeling. The motorcycles rev and talk back and forth by the road. The two old Volvos settle in on the grassy lot. A musty, old-yet-comforting smell seeps everywhere in the house. I turn over in bed, to look at moonlight streaming through the gaping crack in the shade. Across the street, the antique store is boarded up, Its precious relics waiting until tomorrow. The corner store is closed, sodas and water closed up, Coffee makers quiet, until the morning brew. Down at the pond, the bathhouse looms quietly, old green paint on the outside. Swimsuits and towels hang on racks in rooms, swaying in a soft breeze. The day’s sand tracked in is leaking through the old planks on the floor, Falling onto the ground beneath. The raft bobs in the pond, surrounded by dark glistening water. Up the dirt road to Drew Farm, Wild animals roam the backyard. In the attic, the lights are off. In the room at the back, mattresses, chairs, tables, and papers are left sprawled out In the middle of planning. In Airy Cottage, the lights are out, The radio, always playing orchestras, is off and quiet. Back in the Little House, all the screen doors are locked And the porch furniture stands still on the porch. This is Gilmanton at night. Anya Geist, 12 Worcester, MA John P. Anson, 7 Kerala, India

  The cicadas chirp a lullaby to the night. Their buzzing seems obtrusive at first But grows to be comforting and content. Inside, the tiled floor sits cold with all its rivets and dips. Shutters are locked shut to the windows, Hatches battened down, Giving the impression of the quarters of a ship Sailing through the long, dry grasses of Southern France. In the beige bedroom, I lie on the twin bed, my shoulder leaning against the wall. My friend lies across the room, snoring peacefully. Outside, down the hallway, the fifth bedroom lays vacant. The other three are occupied, their doors shut tightly. The steep, tiled stairs lead the way down to the first floor, Its high ceiling grand but inviting. The two L-shaped couches in the back living room host card boxes From games previously played. These floors are new and wooden. The windows there still show outside, onto the small cracked patio. The kitchen is on the front left side of the house, Cramped but piled with food And giving way to the laundry room with its low, stooped ceiling. The dining room table is cleared off, Its blue tablecloth lit up by the moon that shines bright through the windows. The alcoves in it are in shadow, mysterious and dark. The great front door creaks on its old hinges. Breezes whish through the air, Spreading the smell of overripe fruit from the trees. The cars and table sit on a rough gravel. Through a grove, the pool sits dark. Its sloshing can be heard, a welcoming sound. Five chairs sit under an umbrella, relaxing. A yard of dry grasses stretches until a set of bushes. From the yard, the whole city seems to be seen. All of the narrow streets and alleys and squares of Aix-en-Provence. The mountain of Sainte-Victoire looms in the distance, Standing where it can just be seen. Returning through the small grove, the house is sleepy and tired. The shutters are closed and the windows on the first floor are empty and dark Even as the moon shines on the front of the house. The old, worn stone is cool to the touch in the dry night. Back in bed, I lay under the blanket, chilly And think of the house perched on its hill Sleeping under the canopy of night. Anya Geist, 12 Worcester, MA