Peek Inside Thunder Underground by Jane Yolen

Poems by

Jane Yolen

Illustrated by

Josée Masse

NNDD

THUN D UNDERGRO ER U

AN IMPRINT OF ASTRA BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

New York

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CONTENTS UNDER 5 Under the House 6 Seeds 8 Corny Conversations 9 Thunder Underground 10 Oh, to Be an Ant 11 Earthworm 11 Mole Eats 12 Velvet 13 Subway 14 Under the City: Two Views

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Three Things I Know About the Roots of Trees

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Lost City 20 Pirate Treasure 23 Notes from Some Old Fossils

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Magma Pools 26 Tectonic Plates: A Haiku 27 Earth Quake 27 Underground Rivers 28 Spelunk 29 UNDER 30 Notes on the Poems: Both Scientific and Personal

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UNDER –ground Beneath our feet, a world apart, is found our Earth’s fast-beating heart.

It keeps us living, soil and root, while up above we eat the fruit.

–stand Knowledge grounds a power base, so seek out knowledge touched by grace.

Start below, reach for the sky, and like the caterpillar fly.

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UNDER THE HOUsE Here is a cellar, a basement, a clutter, a helter-skelter, a maze, cables, pipes, the basic foundation, a storage, a story, the oldest page.

Read house history in the Under.

Use imagination.

Wonder.

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sEEDs This dot, this spot, this period at the end of winter’s sentence writes its way up through the dull slate of soil into the paragraph of spring.

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CORNy CONVERsaTiONs In sounds too odd for us to hear, corn plants can talk, not mouth to ear.

But with a strange and clicking sound, their taproots speak beneath the ground.

We don’t know what corn rootlings say when they communicate this way.

But scientific studies show they do this as they grow and grow and grow.

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thunder Underground

Thunder underground.

That’s the sound beetles make when walking ’round.

Squeaky like a creaky door, clicking, clacking, muffled roar, beetles on the underfloor.

Scritch, scratch, scrunch, that’s the crunch of beetles eating beetle lunch— all roots, no punch.

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Oh, to Be an Ant

Earthworm

Oh, to be an ant, neat, quiet, indifferent to anything but constant work; hurrying, scurrying, burying; line after line, their labors unceasing from hill to hill, always quiet, never still.

Inch by inch, and root by root, the tiny earthworm crawls.

It makes its living in the dirt creating its own walls.

Their mega-city cambered, chambered, tied by endless highways, byways made by workers, hauling dirt four times their weight.

Not architected by one will, but thousands working, never still.

It oils those walls for ease of passage, gurgling as it goes; a slime machine, while all around it things just decompose.

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