Because I climb a ladder to sleep, sometimes I feel it takes too long. On the bottom rung, I see the house, shadowed and cozy, dark and peaceful, already in another dream. On the second rung, I see the town, with each little house drowning in blankets, and rarely in silence, usually in snoring, with families sleeping despite it. But not me. On the next rung, I see the country, amazed at so many people driving, walking, running, thinking, climbing ladders to their own sleep. On the next rung, I see the world, and I realize I’m not alone in my tired efforts to fall asleep, but mostly, I see that almost everyone is snuggling with teddy bears, pillows, blankets, spouses—anything soft they can grab. I’m surprised at how fast they climbed their ladders. I reach for the next rung, but I get a mattress instead. I pull myself up, tuck myself in, close my eyes, and feel my bed drift back to the world, back to the country, back to the little town where people sleep, back to the house, and finally to sleep. Juliet B. Quaglia, 10Piermont, New York
Poetry-Nighttime
Frog Song
I step out into the clouded dusk the dark light pushes up against my skin the steady contribution of frog song pours into the air, making the measuring cup of the night overflow. the rock is cold beneath me, reminds me to shiver. the last light swiftly falls underneath the trees and I capture it in angular lines on this paper. the air grows darker and huddles nearer. stirs, exhales in one gust of breath, anticipates the night. the last strip of gold is disappearing and here, on the outskirts of the sanctuary of the porch light, my shadow is huge on the ground. slapped across my page, the dark mimic of my pencil waves. now the sun remains only as a half-inch-wide ribbon of dull orange beyond the trees and the frogs announce the sun will set tomorrow, too. but I am hunched here on the edge of the world, and the sun just fell off. Nicole Guenther, 13 Vancouver, Washington
Night Music
The cricket drones and an eternity passes. As the night whispers on the ground below, perched forever behind the star-soaked curtain of sky. And the rain drips from the old gutters to my windowsill and onto the ground below. Listen. Wait. You may hear the murmuring conversations behind the windows of home. A wisp of music drifting on wind and mist, caught in the dewy grass. This world, half asleep, falling into the arms of unconscious thought and dreamless slumber is a symphony. Norah Brady, 13Jamaica Plain,Massachusetts
