Mmmm, the man on the bench says as he plunges a spoon into his mouth. Aaaah, his wife says as she pulls out a clean white spoon from her lips. The woman at the front of the line grins. A little girl to the left of me is dancing like a ballerina, with a cup in one hand and a spoon in the other. Ice is shaved into thousands of pieces. Conversations have no meaning. I hear an occasional mmmm or aaaah. Finally, it is time to make a selection. Sweet Strawberry? Wet Watermelon? Merry Margarita? Ripe Raspberry? I know, Gushing Grape. I watch the ice being poured. My lips go dry The flavors are glazed on, and my tongue nearly falls off in anticipation Finally, my cup is full, and I am bouncing like a wild kangaroo. The counter girl places it on the cool counter. I grasp my treat and dig in. My taste buds take flight. Cold ice graces my tongue, as the sweet flavors rush down my throat. The taste gets better. Before I know it, my cup is empty. Yum. Nicholas Wilsdorf, 12Rolla, Missouri
Poetry-The-Seasons
Thirteen Ways to Look at Autumn
The smell of gingersnaps, apple cider, and pumpkin pie wafting through the air in delicate swirls arm-in-arm with the colorful wind. The shy sun poking through the wooden arms of a lamenting willow. Golden drops of warm sunshine strewn across the yards of piled leaves and blades of thin grass. Quietly, almost silently, the bitter wind and its long fingers pull and wrench at the crackling leaves. The sighs of schoolchildren accompanying the morning fog on the dawn of the first day. The clouds overhead as gray and lumpy as my grandma’s oatmeal. A flock of geese, united in song, fly south for the winter. Shadows trace the geese’s dark feathers against the flames of dusk. As I watch them fly the roar of the ocean drowns out my bellow: Why must you depart? A dove and a nightingale cooing along with the caws of a raven upon the calling of Hallow’s Eve. Pumpkins and jack-o’-lanterns with wicked smiles glaring at you from doorsteps. The sweet taste of pumpkin pie dancing upon your tongue. I do not know which to prefer, the beauty of contrast or the beauty of harmony. The last green leaf or the vicinity. The mountain is sighing. Autumn must be near. Kelly Dai, 12Merion Station,Pennsylvania
Silent Story
On a cold winter morning The lake breathes out steam Like a giant tea kettle. Two ducks in the middle As still as a painting. Why haven’t they gone south? A bird hangs up in the air. Let’s sit on the shore And soak in the quiet. Instead, we zoom by And join in the traffic. Mina Alexandra Oates, 7Pinson, Alabama
