the sounds of morning greet me with unpleasant cheer the world’s awake after what feels like years of solitude the earth is smiling the birds are singing but still i lay heavy like a log refusing to move things are happening cities are bubbling boiling with life and sound mixing and whirring machines go round and round early morning adventure doesn’t hit me but the gentle sound of rain tapping my roof slithering down until the brown wet muck meets it and the warm calming cave that is my bed excites me the most on this rainy messy saturday morning Juliet Del Fabbro, 11Richmond, VA
Poetry-Sense-of-Place
Self-Portrait: Breath of Ghosts
We never used our fireplace until Hurricane Sandy snapped the power lines. Heavy rain and wind whipped around our dark house as the night grew colder. Our flashlights, the steamy breath of ghosts in the dead of winter. My father’s match struck a stack of miniature ebony logs and turned them alight like the bright orange wings of a monarch butterfly, the dark body of the room made thicker. Over the flame, we boiled water and cooled it just long enough to soak our feet— calm ripples and soft circling soothing us as the night wind raged. The house stayed black, but I memorized how many steps the stairway held, the exact height of each step. Sabrina Guo, 13Oyster Bay, NY Caitlin Goh, 13 Dallas, TX
In the Playroom
The silver and bronze chessmen wait to be set against one another, next to Lego soldiers who defend their base from giant robots while starfighters stage dog fights. Facing themselves in an otherworldly mirror like an alien monument to primitive gods. While the slow whirr of the foot massager comforts my mother as she texts her friends. A big centerpiece, a shiny, often-out-of-tune piano on which “Für Elise” was mastered in a month. Opposite, a huge window with sunsets galore and at night, I can make a game of finding how many moths plaster the window. When I am down, I can always escape over here, away from all the excitement and hubbub of outside and indulge in dear playtime and my own fantasies. Ah, the sweet smell of fond memories, of earthy, waxy incense candles burning, fit for meditations at a Buddhist monastery. And the moist lemon and herb tea, as savory as a summer salad. The spicy jalapeño chips contrasting with the clean air of the heater warming me while I type this on the Mac. When stuck on writing, I chew on my comfort food, cheesy, nutty, spiced crackers, and feel the hairy fuzziness of the piano sheepskin cover for inspiration. My favorite sound: Lego pieces falling onto the smooth, polished hardwood, little souls trapped inside and unable to help themselves. William Chui, 12Mill Valley, CA
