Poem

Clock’s on the oven. It says it’s time to get up. The clock tells the truth.

As I lie in my bed, I smell The cold winter air And my pajamas. It is early morning, About six o’clock. I yawn, And lean back down on my pillow. I sigh.

As I climbed onto the ladder to my bunk bed, Cries exploded from the open window. I tried to eavesdrop But heard only Blabbering voices.

Gazing out the window, I observe the teal ocean. Its waves thrash against the biggest rocks I’ve ever seen, but in its violence, I see only beauty. Its blue is that of a turquoise crayon six-year-old me would firmly grip in her tiny hands. She would scribble on a blank page, filling it with what she saw in her tiny green eyes as the most wonderful drawing in the world. She’d be eager to get home and show her disastrous “artwork” to her parents, who would, in turn, smile their strained smiles and nod to each other, knowing there’s no way their little girl could ever pursue art as a career. Outside, I notice the sun seems to be getting sleepy. It has decided to rest its weary head upon the horizon, sinking peacefully into the now calm, quiet ocean. In a few hours, the explosion of colors that we know as a sunset will die down, fading into a dark inky blue, then purple, then black. The stars will come out, and the moon will do its best to shine as bright as our majestic sun. It won’t come too close, but that’s okay. Our tiny moon tries its best. In the end, I’ll still be here, staring out the tiny window of this little brown train. Seasons, tides, and weather may change, but here I remain. Staring out the tiny window of this little brown train.

As the clouds grow dark, We start to relax. We play a game of shapes of clouds. All of a sudden, water starts to fall And we still lie there, all wet and out of breath.

Bamboo Water Fountain I watched the water. It was still. No ripples, no waves, no tides. No fish of any kind. It was not a pond, a stream, an ocean, or a lake. It was a pot. A pot filled with water. And then it began to bubble, and then it began to boil. And I made soup. However, I had no carrots, no cabbage, no cucumbers. No vegetables of any kind. It was not a broth, nor a bouillon, neither a bisque or a consommé. It was water. It was all I had. So I drank it.

You are reading this poem now. I wrote it “now,” but by the time you’re reading it, I will have written the poem in the past. Oh, the functions of time! Past, now, soon . . . Time commands every word. What is now? It is gone, but will come again, right now.

Distracting myself, busy all day, cannot accept another day lost to time. Time— the old enemy, yet friend, it makes me a day older yet wiser. Another day of my life is gone. Past. But I know that I did something that day; I did not sit around, waiting waiting waiting for it to pass, and waiting waiting waiting for the next day to come. I read wrote learned asked questions and went outside to the park in that day. So maybe it is worth being another day older, another second older— not that it’s my choice anyway. I’ll enjoy it, I’ll love it, and I will not look back.

The backseat car window holds a view I never want to lose: A normal-looking house. Our house. Becoming smaller smaller smaller until I can barely see it in the horizon of blue, sympathetic sky and wide wheat prairie tousled in the breeze. My favorite sight is out of sight forever. I turn back around and see a new sight— our new house— now I will get used to seeing and living in it.

Goodbye, Earth: rising rising I am rising above the grass, and falling toward the moon.

 with not a star in sight so let us make them: .                                  .                         .                 . .     . .                         .         .                 . .                                                                  . .                         .                 . A memory of Joy . . .

This piece contains some additional resources for educators. Click here to read them. On some cool days, we wear wool because of the breeze, with a little sneeze, like the wind will never freeze. The chatter of the trees, the red of the leaves that have flooded the streets like a stream, like a dream, with some steam. Additional Resources Summary & Analysis Discussion Questions Summary & Analysis The poem “Summer to Fall” is a poem written by Clark Liu, age nine. This poem is written with one stanza consisting of ten lines. The voice employs the first person “we.” It tells the story of a group of people experiencing the effects of fall, including the cool breeze and the sound of leaves whooshing quickly around them. How does this writer play with poetic forms? Although the lines are all grouped together in one stanza, there are three sections divided by their direct rhymes. The first line features two rhyming halves for emphasis: “On some cool days, we wear wool.” Liu is playing with the “ool” sound here, and the line pops out because of the rhyme within the line itself (internal rhyme). The texture and idea of wool makes readers feel cozy on Liu’s cool fall day. The way that the word “wool” is formed in our mouths can feel fuzzy like a sweater. The second rhymed section of the poem focuses on the “eeze” or “ees” rhymes. The emphasis on the “ee” sound makes a reader feels as though they are caught in the breeze or “the chatter of the trees.” Readers feel enshrouded by the fall trees which are changing colors and dropping their leaves. The last section consists of the last three lines. Here, Liu focuses on the “eem” sound, using stream, dream, and steam for extra emphasis at the end. We can surmise that the action from the trees, with the chatter and the dropping leaves, has created a steam that can’t be quieted. Back to top Discussion Questions • Why might Liu begin the poem with the collective “we”? Why isn’t this pronoun used again in the poem? • A simile is a comparison using either “like” or “as.” Can you any similes in this work? Back to top