By Ava Isabelle

The purple moon sits
above my reaching hand.
I grab it and hold on.
My shy voice sings.
The bowl of the sky tastes
of hungry clouds
with the rain to wash it down.
Sixteen rows of oak trees grow.
A coyote of time with poised paws
waits in empty space.
I wish we could meet again
before the world drops off.

Honorable Mention: Ava Isabelle
Tamalpais High School