We have a young friend who is quite a writer. She is 12 and puts out a monthly (or whenever) newspaper called the Pipsqueak Monthly. I have a subscription, and our whole family enjoys her reports of "goings on" of her farm life and animals. She also includes original poetry. Although she wishes to remain anonymous on the www, she has said that I may publish some of her work here. She has many pen names, but my favorite is Miss Juniper R. Twiddler.
The Wind's Song
I whistle during church,
I bend the slender birch.
I tangle children's hair,I leave some places bare.
But I always go whistling,
Whistling My song. My song, you
say, What can it be? And why is
it unheard by Me? My song is the
whisper of waving wheat, My song
is the slap of stinging sleet, My
song is the swish of swaying grass,
like swirling dancing skirt of
lass. Yet I sing in the rustle of
falling leaves, I sing in the sigh of
a tree that grieves. I whistle a
tune in church, while bending the
slenderest slender birch, and when
I am not whistling, I sing My airy
-Margaret Mae Jones
Wind and Sky and Water
Wind and Sky and Water,
Comfort me, Eve's poor young daughter.
The Wind that waves the whispering wheat,
And also drives the stinging sleet,
The Sky that holds the stars aloft,
At twilight deep and dark and soft.
The Water fresh and cold and clear,
With multitudes of ripples dear.
Yes, in this one such special place,
Where daisies bloom 'side Queen Anne's lace,
Wind and Sky and Water, comfort me, Eve's daughter.
-Cricket Milla Paul