At first glance, only shadows Only wisps of black knitted into The patchwork quilt of springy turf Where magic warms the notes of moon’s music, Light playing upon scruffy T-shirt and shorts, Hair swirling, legs Twirling, Hoping to gather treasure in her net Then out of dark and fresh-lain night: A tiny little bead of light Up, up swoops the net with arms raised high And the balls of bare feet jump to meet The moon And lo, the little flickerin’ thing Is caught up in the net And she reaches balled fist in eagerly, Band-Aids patching up hurts of yesterday, And tiny, warty fingers fix themselves round their catch, But, try as she will to cut off its light, Clasping both hands round the firefly, She cannot kill the hope of the creature That has been caught before, And the giggles, the attempts to close in the beams of yellow Only amuse the moon For what would parents know of such important matters? And as she releases the firefly’s light It sails back off into the night. Katie Ferman, 13 Three Lakes, Wisconsin
Poem
The Leaf and the Web
Lines… Veins… Silky Strands… One red leaf on a green tree, Swaying all alone in the wind One red leaf falling through the chilled fall air Swirling in the twilight. A busy spider in the early hours of dawn, Silk webbing falling behind, Swirling strand, into lines, into web of silk. Twilight One red leaf is swirling, Falling it twirls one more time, A beauty… A web with one red leaf Intertwined in the silky strands. Taylor Nelsen, 11 Greenville, North Carolina
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
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
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 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
The Opposite Direction
The icy November breeze Chilled my neck, as muggy Gray clouds hid the brilliant sun. Laying my rake down, giving it a rest From clawing the leaves into a pile, When the desperate cries of wood thrushes came to my ears. The enormous amount of birds made me suck in the crisp air. I exclaimed, “Wow. You don’t see that every day!” The birds made dips and circular movements, that were fluent and organized. As the huge swarm flew towards their destination, one small speck of a bird left the pack and flew in the opposite direction. The caws and cries of the huge group echoed off into the early morning sky. The shrieks and hisses of the hawks greeted them as they flew into Costa Rica and pierced through every heart of the wood thrushes. A living nightmare for the inky black-eared wood thrushes, A temporary amusement for the hungry hawks. Hawks dived down on their prey like hail on ants. Wood thrushes scattered frantically beating their wings up and down searching for any means of escape. Razor-sharp talons and hooked beaks glinted in dawn’s early light. The wood thrushes scrambled to and fro—”Where to go!” One small speck of a bird led the others out of the jungle, making swerves and dips as the hawks stopped their vicious assault. They had a joyful reunion with the one daring bird that made a solo flight—and eventually led the others out of the hawk’s sharp grasp. Benjamin Firsick, 11 South Windsor, Connecticut
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
