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, 13Brooklyn, New York
Poetry-Sense-of-Place
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, 9Bethlehem, Pennsylvania
Cape Cod Bay Tide
Our suspicion grows as the tide rises. The path is gone along with the beach, blocking our way. The marsh has disappeared, the sand a new brown, the sky a pale gray. Ice chunks linger in the ever flowing waters. The bird cries are far out on the bay where the ice banks end, where open water lies. Jump from island to island, making sure not to get splashed by the freezing salt water. Our dog runs out onto the icebergs, and then comes shivering back to our heels. The cold wind blows and seems to push the tide in. The trunks of the pines touch the bank, inches away from the sea. The sun hides, and the hills seem to grow with the shadows. The eyes of little crabs come from holes along the beach, and scurry to higher ground. This is high tide. Sophie Anne Ruehr, 11Brookline, Massachusetts
