I roll onto my side, the grass damp and prickly on my bare legs. A speckled monarch flits across a big-leaf hydrangea sky. The breeze tousles the rose bushes, sighs, then rests. Nature’s beauty draws me in, but my own drowsiness, like the reel of a fishing rod, pulls me back. I let the blades pierce my neck, my arms openly welcoming the chilling sensation while a tree teases me with its shade, covering me, then dancing off. Peace envelops me like the husk of a summer tomatillo, like the soft petal of a sleepy tulip. Gertie-Pearl Zwick-Schachter, 12 New York, New York
Poem
My Sag Harbor
The heavy door is embellished With a whale knocker And on the side a doorbell That no longer rings. You walk up the porch steps And turn the cold metal knob Pushing against the force That never wants you to open the white door. This is my Sag Harbor. The houses are small With dogs running out in the yard As you walk into the town. Pass the little ice cream parlor And the restaurant with live lobsters Watching you pass with fishy eyes. And pass the toy store Crowded with kids Holding quarters to get their turn on the Coin-operated fire engines. This is my Sag Harbor. A shimmering turquoise is the color of the Wharf. Where huge crew ships, Put down their anchors, And tie themselves to the dock. The sailboats can be seen for miles, Clipped to their buoys, Floating on the surface like butterflies, In a peaceful order, Until a motorboat comes racing through, Creating waves. At the beach you see the rolling sand dunes, And the pebbles that litter the lining of the incoming wave. Like lace the rocks encircle each other, On the wet sand contrasting beautifully with The deep blue of the ocean, And the lighter sky. This is my Sag Harbor. Charlotte Robertson, 11 New York, New York
Finding a Bug on a Summer Morning
here this is a black dot. that moves uncontrollably in the slight breeze at odd angles in twisted, bent ways looking almost as if it is grasping at the delicate balance it now hangs in my breath is heavy as I try to make it fly, again the damage worsens and breaks this is not your final resting place I whisper my voice carried off by the wind I blow hard my tiny black dot flies away Ella Fasciano, 13 Lebanon, New Jersey
Salty Air
My sister and I Scramble up the jagged rocks Our pockets full of shells, rocks And the occasional sea glass. My mother sits by the fire, Reading peacefully We grab sheets of paper towels On the windowsill, a menagerie Of tiny ocean creatures Unmoving now, glistening in the sun They sit there all weekend Until it’s time to Go. The sea glass is the last act in the show All others packed up Shoved into bags and jackets We always leave the best for last But when we get home, Exhausted in that exhilarating way, The memories are drawn out of our things We lock them in our minds And all that’s left is dull rocks The magic somehow all gone. They were always more beautiful When you had the ocean behind them The waves pounding the shores The earthy damp scent And the fireplace, crackling all night. Pearl Tulay, 12 Amherst, Massachusetts
Goes the Ball
You know the sound— the clang as the ball bounces off the rust-colored hoop. The backboard, faded with use, trembles. You feel it vibrate. On the rebound, you throw again. In your mind, the ball soars through the hoop; a satisfying swish. Instead, the ball ricochets, landing in the mud; it splatters. When you pick it up, the ball is caked with mud. You sigh, and turn to head back. In the distance, there is a rumble of thunder And yet… the muddy ball flies, flecks of dirt trailing in its wake. You watch as the ball’s path forms a perfect arc; your heart leaps. Once again, you think of the ball soaring through the air, and passing through the hoop. This time, you hear it swish. Richard Ma, 12 Kirksville, Missouri
This Real World
In this real world I can feel the long grass Brush my knees And hear the soft whisper Of the breeze calling Go home, go home As the daylight turns to night. In this real world I can see black specks Circling the sky Using high-pitched squeaks As they locate each other In the twilight. In this real world I can almost taste The sweetness of summer On my lips As the bullfrogs call Goodnight, goodnight. Meghan Waldron, 13 South Deerfield, Massachusetts
Reflection
I spread my sides, flattening like Play-Doh, And close my eyes as light spreads its fingers over my back. My blood heats and spills warmth into my tail and toes. Hidden prey sings the song of my recognition and their mating. I open my eyes to see a lizard. He lies on his tri-colored boulder like a scaly draping. He looks dull against his darkened, nonsensical, almost see-through background. Another sun rests above his head. How nice it must be to have the sun follow you around. He cocks his head as I do the same, He often comes when the crickets sing and often sits on his red rock. Tonight he is a wet bearded dragon, like he was in the rain. As I have been, Warm water poured down my head as I stood, Up to my sides, in water before I went to my den. Prey sits in front of him as a chirp sounds in my ear. I admire the diamonds on his back, so like my own, And the red and white around his ears I also thought were mine alone. Our close resemblance is queer. His tail is gray but red striped and tame. And his head is the work of a perfectionist artist In its perfect symmetrical design only nature can claim. I clamber off my red basking rock and so does he. This night he moves with me, mirroring my every move. He looks so close he could be me. Then click… the sun is dark. My eyes see in the new land instantly, But the lizard in gone, where does he lurk? I pull my dragon body over my hill into my cave, And wonder if he will come on the dawn of tomorrow Genevieve Jacobs, 12 Tallahassee, Florida
Performance
Night knits the mountains close and hazy lines shoot high. A half moon rising low and dim quietly moans a tune; the wind is at a howl; the trees are a wobbling drum. The lake ripples— the main event is about to occur— Though it is nothing special, really, but celestial dead bodies that light up our little souls. Izzah Khairi, 13 Calgary, Alberta, Canada
Silent Language
There are special moments where you connect with another living being. When no words are spoken you can understand each other. Some moments you can physically feel, as you run with your dog and your steps fall in line, as if to the beat of a drum. You can feel it through music as you dance together with someone you love, twirling in and out of the rhythm and letting it hold you close. When you don’t even try, it can happen, as you hold a baby close to your chest feeling its fragile heart beat. And the precious life in your arms doesn’t even know the brightness of the world, but you know each other. When you are a baby, you don’t know how to speak but you have a language. It is silent and without words. As you learn to speak, that unspoken language gets less practice and slowly fades away like a memory from long ago until all you know are words as if that is the only way to communicate. Sometimes you can still use it and it will kick in on its own, that is when these moments happen. The language is strong and quiet like a wooded stream. You will stop to listen to it and feel it in you bypassing your brain and rushing straight to your heart. If you hold onto that current you can embrace it and let it speak to you in its own way. Bethany Duff, 11 Landenberg, Pennsylvania
Cold
The cold air Hits me instantly, spontaneously, As I step out the door. My breath Puffs on the cold air in little white clouds, Forming a quick wisp of silky fog. Snow Soft, white, like winter’s blanket, Spirals from the sky, landing on The creases of my shirt, Landing on my eyelashes, Creating a cold white barrier between my eyes And the world ahead. Ice It covers the water on the street In a cold, hard shell of whiteness Causing my boots To slip and slide over it. The bleak, black skeletons of trees Sway solemnly in the harsh, snowy wind. Cold. Claire Yoon MacDonald, 10 Bexley, Ohio
Made with Love
We stand in the old kitchen On the white rustic floors With cloth draped over the table My tiny hands are ready She gets the flour As I stretch to get eggs At the back of the fridge My fingers slip She saves it from behind We laugh We lower the mixer Add the ingredients I scoop a bit of batter into my mouth She sees me but pretends not to notice It makes me feel warm inside Baking bread with Nana I wait for the loaf to rise We talk about things that we love together Sports, food, and just life The aroma of the perfect bakery fills the room As I embrace the smell And know it was made with love Jordan Guberman, 12 Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada
Morn
Hazy gray-gold light Patterns on the wall. Mystical. Creaking door, A frisky tail, and she pounces Ever so light. She prances, Arches her back, kneads deep into the blanket, And collapses. I curl around her, A snug cocoon. One. Her eyes mere slits A faint meow, Contented. A caressing hand, Smoothing her rumpled fur, Soft and warm like gingerbread. I rest my hand near her heart, Listen to her raspy purr. Close my eyes. And I doze off again. Enveloped, In the gray-gold morning light. Katherine Shock, 12 Baltimore, Maryland
