Pure, dazzling white Miles of ice blend with miles of snow and snow-covered rock which can be deadly if you don’t know where to look A solitary climber winds his way up this mountain stopping only now and then to adjust his tinted snow goggles This high up he almost feels ill overwhelmed by the sheer altitude of this mountain which he has come to love in a way as his own the altitude of his mountain can do this to people — make them feel so ill that they never make it up to the summit but he will he vows this to himself Each step is a mountain in itself the snow is quicksand it wants to drag him down with every step he takes but he fights back and wins this battle thinking only of the summit the very top oh the view from the summit nothing else is on his mind not even the ever-diminishing speed of his steps He sees the snow is ending—could it be the summit is only fifty yards away? He quickens his pace His struggles are pushed like mere toys to the back of his mind with one last step a step taken more by determination and resolve than by the energy of his body and his feet He reaches the summit and looks down Emily Riippa,13 Grand Rapids, Michigan
Poem
Firefly Sky
The fields are a wonder in summertime: Midnight black like the sky, With twinkling lights like stars. What are those lights? Hundreds of fireflies flittering about, Tiny and so nimble. Their lights shine on and off, Making the field like shiny sequins, Like moonshine dancing off the sea. I run out into the field, The half-grown wheat scratching my legs, The ground soft and damp, The air humid and fresh. The fireflies dart away from me, Intimidated by my presence, But I don’t mind. I watch them from a distance. They float above the wheat, Like bright candles in the field. Glancing up at the heavens, I see the stars, Bright candles in the sky This is the moment When Heaven and Earth meet: The stars in the sky are the stars on the ground. How strange it seems That something as small as fireflies Can bring these two vast kingdoms Together as one. Jennifer Hu, 13 Hummelstown, Pennsylvania
Night in the Woods
Smoke rising Into the dark sky Crickets chirp And a twig snaps Warm air presses against me And a cold wind Blows behind my back The fire crackles And Mother laughs As my marshmallow Blows up in flames Then it is bedtime Crawl into the tent The air is cold But inside the sleeping bag It is warm The glow of the fire Shines through the tent As a stick cracks And I drift asleep Amanda Johnson,13 Hanover, Pennsylvania
For Grandma
You drank hot water from a chipped mug. It was so boiling, that it would have scalded my tongue. But you loved it. I loved the Eggo waffles that I’ve never had without you; for me they are only there in your warm house, with the rain pouring behind the large window, as it often does in Olympia. I remember your soft freckled hands, the skin loose and wrinkled, but still strong, patiently untangling my wet hair with that purple comb I loved, as we looked at Ranger Rick magazines, and pictures of Mom’s diving days. You answered my millions of questions, and read me thousands of books in your rich voice, on that green plaid couch, that has since been moved from your house to mine. I curled in your lap and your loud laugh shook your large frame along with my small one, making me giggle and fold myself deeper into your well-cushioned arms until I could feel your heart against my wiry back. I didn’t know then, that someday soon that heart would fail. I wish you could see me now, Grandma, see my life and how I’ve grown. I want to show you the work that I’ve done, and together we could read the poetry that I’ve come to love. But you were gone too soon. Gone before I could say goodbye, gone before you could truly see the granddaughter you barely knew. Sayre White,13 Missoula, Montana
Envelope
surrounded every day by glow-in-the-dark stars gummed to the ceiling and photos like a virus engulfing the walls images of wooden birds and chlorine-rich summers cherry blossoms and children in plastic hats taped mosaic across plaster the house over a century old with closed-off dumbwaiters grimy stained glass tin ceilings sagging canned antiquity house under tree bower turns pink at dusk mourning doves nest on the air conditioner crying night house drowns in dark ink facade retreating into obscurity windows glow over the street where light from passing cars swims into dark rooms disappearing into the walls again Olivia AscioneD’Elia, 13 Brooklyn, New York
The Dancer
Behind the curtain of rain The Dancer awaits Her slick, muscular legs tensing, preparing, Wide eyes darting, searching. Suddenly, with all grace, she leaps through the air. Flying, Soaring, She lands with flawless balance Just in time to shoot her slender tongue into the air For dinner. The frog on her lily pad. Anna Preston,12 Oakton, Virginia
The Canal Towpath Near Sand Island on a September Afternoon
A solitary autumn leaf rustles on a tree. Slowly, gracefully it floats down, twirling, silently meeting the dense dappled shimmer of still water. Overhead, distant vees of geese appear. Their faint raucous cries float on a soft breeze. Sticks weave around rocks to form warm tables where turtles sunbathe languidly Dragonflies swoop and hover like sylphs admiring their likenesses in the mirroring water. Lithe water striders skate across the skin of the canal. Schools of sinuous minnows flit like brown shadows below. Salamanders crawl over the slippery logs submerged under thick algae and creep away The green lacewings buzz perpetually among the reeds. Swamp roses clustered by the bank sway delicately in clumps of switchgrass. Mingled jewelweed and loosestrife nod to passersby People fish, jog, ride bicycles, alone or in couples or in families. I trudge on the dusty path past a child casting a line into the hazy water. He pulls a fish flipping and gasping from the murky depths. The child’s father congratulates him, and the fish’s life slips away Soda cans, rusty metal shards, plastic bottles, old tires are strewn among the brambles. The transfixing image doubles itself on the water, distorted here and there by a dead branch hovering low or a grimy plastic bag caught in weeds at the water’s edge. The placid mirror reflects it all. The river flows on, around snarls of fallen trees trailing skeletal gray fingers in the water. Two boys doubling on a single bike, one on the handlebars, ride by me. Their heads swivel to stare. They mutter something harsh. Cars judder over the looming bridge like distant thunder. Rory Lipkis, 9 Bethlehem, Pennsylvania
Mismatched
Paperwhites were sagging about the sink. You could smell fresh air on them if you got close enough. Their curtain, white and green, the only one on the kitchen window And through it, snow refused to budge. Odd to have flowers and snow even if they matched in color. Except the stems, of course, they stood out like the green bottle next to the clear glasses, like the chicken magnet among those little magnetic words that never spell what you want. Words like “bubble” but not “the” or “and.” Why would I need to write about bubbles? My toe rubbed against the polished maple rung of the tall kitchen stool silent rhythm to the dog’s tapping nails, parents mumbling, ever-present radio, NPR or a Cuban CD. A jumbled soundtrack to my moment of thinking nothing, forgetting to check the notes that came and went, muddling over the fridge; my tiny collage. Pierie Korostoff, 12 Spring Mills, Pennsylvania
The Sea’s Hug
The sea opens its arms to me Hugging me by pulling me into its deep cool waters My head goes under The waves crash overhead I hug it back I swim deep To the bottom No rush to get air My feet feel the sandy bottom I swim back up To smell the crisp fresh salty breeze pass by me I see mossy rocks slipping under the waves Seagulls cry loudly for their friends I see bright neon-colored sea glass glittering in the sun I walk onto warm sand But the sea calls me back to play I can’t resist I run into its cool hug once again Annie Rudisill,11 Ann Arbor, Michigan
Winter
I walk through the silent pasture to the tree swing. I sit down and start to swing. I close my eyes and fall into a silent sleep. When I open my eyes I see the ground is littered with leaves, acorns and plants of all kinds. I sit listening to the wind roar. I am not troubled. I just sit there watching waiting. Riley Grace Carlson, 9 Franklin, Tennessee
Choir of Autumn’s End
Listen! Is that the calling of the hounds, The hounds returning? What wavering desolate horn is this that sounds, So much like the wild hunt’s baying? A trembling weary choir of voices From the chilly gray air. And they come, then, From behind the old, mound-like gray hill, A long-necked mourning choir on wings, Late geese. We are the last Honks their song And should have listened to the wind’s warnings. Now autumn is ended And winter’s wingbeats ruffle our tails. Gabriel Wainio-Theberge, 12 Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
Autumn
We see autumn As a blaze Of red leaves, falling leaf-shaped embers From the branch-lined sky, A blaze Of squirrels rushing, Geese hurrying, of motion, A blaze Of jack-o-lanterns. But around the jack-o-lanterns falls the night, Advancing slowly through the days, A black cat stalking the now-mouse-weak sun. Northern winds come Hand in hand with warm zephyrs Above the autumn’s thin skin of fire, Waltzing around each other; Summer to winter and back While below, Frost turns soil to stone, For hardy autumn-leaf mushrooms to stand brittle Like Medusa’s stare. Gabriel Wainio-Theberge,12 Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
