Paperwhites were sagging about the sink. You could smell fresh air on them if you got close enough. Their curtain, white and green, the only one on the kitchen window And through it, snow refused to budge. Odd to have flowers and snow even if they matched in color. Except the stems, of course, they stood out like the green bottle next to the clear glasses, like the chicken magnet among those little magnetic words that never spell what you want. Words like “bubble” but not “the” or “and.” Why would I need to write about bubbles? My toe rubbed against the polished maple rung of the tall kitchen stool silent rhythm to the dog’s tapping nails, parents mumbling, ever-present radio, NPR or a Cuban CD. A jumbled soundtrack to my moment of thinking nothing, forgetting to check the notes that came and went, muddling over the fridge; my tiny collage. Pierie Korostoff, 12Spring Mills, Pennsylvania
Poetry-Reflections
When I Was Five
When I was five, I got out of school. It was the first day and I had already made friends. But none of us knew what was happening. I heard a lot of talk about crash mess fall tall. Why was everyone talking about mess fall hit hurt and tears. Fear. My mom took me home. The streets were empty. I heard fire trucks and police cars. Then my mom told me. The two towers were missing. I was five. It was September 11. Suddenly, I felt unsure. Ashok Kaul, 11New York, New York
One Night in Autumn
The wind Is blowing strongly into my face. It feels good. I close my eyes and lie back In the wet grass. It is dark out and everyone else is sleeping. Everyone but me. It’s a nice feeling, being alone Out here. Ticktock. I hear the sounds of my watch, Every second, every minute. Why does my watch have to remind Me of the time passing? It was nice to forget About time. Always people are so busy, They never have time to think About who they are And who they want to be. Am I really here, all alone, so close to my home, Yet so far? Is this a dream? Everything that happened and everything that will happen Rides away on the wind— Up, up it goes Past the moon and into infinity. Dawn creeps in on me and I quietly let myself In through the back door. I tiptoe up the stairs into my bedroom— Like a burglar in my own house. Safe in my bed again, I pretend I’m sleeping. No one will ever guess where I was that autumn night— But I will never forget it. Rhiannon Grodnik, 12San Francisco, California
