Carefully, warily, Sitting with my mom at the kitchen table. She peels quickly: in a few swift moments One twisted apple peel sits on the cutting board. I try to copy her, but no— The knife slips and Cuts off a small chip of the red peel. Trying again, I get lost in the smell of the ripening fruit (Sweet, almost sickly sweet), Filling the room with a scent like my grandma’s house. And I start to remember the first time The first time I had her apple pie— I wrinkled my nose and said, “Too sweet!” (Now it’s my favorite dessert.) The first time I buttoned up my coat To keep out the cold on an October day, The first time I read a book To my mother in broken, unsteady words, The first time I tied my shoe After hours of torture and trial— And as I think of this, I barely notice the one, perfect apple peel Sitting on the cutting board in front of me. Katie Ferman, 12Three Lakes, Wisconsin
Poetry-Reflections
Irises
Every day I am reborn as something new. I am a prim cherry blossom, a sleek flying fish, a youthful scholar I am everything all at once; a savory dash of powdery cinnamon, a sprig of scorched chard. I am the pulse of the air I inhale, I am one of seven billion Homo sapiens. But no matter what or who I am, I will always gaze at our world of infinity from behind the same gleaming obsidian pupils, the same shining chestnut irises. Caroline Smyth, 12Raleigh, North Carolina
Tracks
I go to the tracks to think, The ties go on for miles. They let me see the world, They remind me how small I am. The bushes creep into the dirt in the cracks, Even in synthetic structures there is nature. They have sat here long enough to be ruins, And trellises for invasive vines. But they were once signs of progress, Human civilization creeping over unclaimed lands. I go to the tracks to think, There’s a rock a few yards off. It’s big enough to sit on, So I sit and watch. Most remnants of the tracks’ glory days are gone, But I can feel the rush of the wind as the trains hurtle past. Ellanora Lerner, 13New London, Connecticut
