Soft, quiet, a blanket of books, Turn left, left again, up the stairs, Feet finding the usual route. Passing comrades, enclosed in words, To the end of the row, near the window, The chair, my haven, Of books. I don’t notice when it grows dark, Outside, I don’t look up from the knights, And dragons, and swords, and horses. The problems in this world are easier, To face than the ones in Mine. Misha Kydd,12Jericho, Vermont
Poetry-Reflections
Dawn
The first shaft of luminous light travels, its speed unthinkable Over the horizon, through the trees, And into my open eyes. Birds hop about, like people, Trying to find a good Perch, branch, position In life. Satisfied, they begin their Throaty chorusing, declaring only the best. Window open, the maple and oak Scent drifts like it has done For millions of years, a crisp Beginning to the significance Of the day, three hundred and Sixty-five rotations a year, Time’s luck which decides so much. As after a rainstorm, Water has never smelled so sweet. During the time between dreams And reality, air has never Tasted so good. Wujun Ke,13Chapel Hill, North Carolina
Dawn
The first shaft of luminous light travels, its speed unthinkable Over the horizon, through the trees, And into my open eyes. Birds hop about, like people, Trying to find a good Perch, branch, position In life. Satisfied, they begin their Throaty chorusing, declaring only the best. Window open, the maple and oak Scent drifts like it has done For millions of years, a crisp Beginning to the significance Of the day, three hundred and Sixty-five rotations a year, Time’s luck which decides so much. As after a rainstorm, Water has never smelled so sweet. During the time between dreams And reality, air has never Tasted so good. Wujun Ke,13Chapel Hill, North Carolina
