A boy and a girl live in cities in two different parts of the world. Though it’s not explicit in the text where each resides, it is easy to tell the boy and his mother live comfortably, while the girl and her father live in the midst of war, and their safety is never a given. 

As both pairs go through their daily lives, their respective experiences mirror each other, and their destinations converge upon a single point: a brightly lit Ferris wheel, turning slowly on its axis as it offers a new perspective from every point in the sky. 

Author Tulin Kozikoglu and illustrator Huseyin Sönmezay’s picture book The Ferris Wheel is a beautifully profound yet subtle story about refugees and global connection. This book captures the essence of what a picture book should be: The text and illustrations are in complete conversation, providing context and bolstering each other. 

Across seemingly simple spreads, the parents’ dialogue often matches verbatim: “On the street, Mama says, ‘Be careful.’ / On the street, Papa says, ‘Be careful.’” But small differences carry larger implications: For example, as each pair passes a candy store, the boy’s mother says, “Not before lunch,” while the girl’s father says, “Not anymore.” 

Sönmezay’s stunning digital illustrations are as textured and tangible as if one were standing in front of a physical canvas. Bordered by white frames containing the text, the images possess a strong dimensionality that foregrounds each parent-child pair while offering many background details to explore. Sönmezay makes the meaningful choice to keep the color palettes similar throughout both settings, showing that there can still be vibrance in dire circumstances. The varying contexts depicted in each street scene are likely to prompt questions and fruitful conversations. 

Though drawn from Kozikoglu’s experiences growing up and living in Turkey—which her author’s note describes as “a land of ‘comers’ and ‘goers’’’ due to centuries-old, ongoing political turmoil—The Ferris Wheel itself is not specific about time or place, which adds to the universality of its deceptively simple narrative. While the overarching metaphor of the ferris wheel itself may not be immediately clear to young readers, the book will begin a conversation that can be returned to again and again.

Kids (and whimsical adults) often wonder what it would be like if inanimate objects came to life. Thanks to Leigh Hodgkinson’s The Princess and the (Greedy) Pea (Candlewick, $17.99, 9781536231328), they can marvel at a tiny vegetable who becomes voraciously self-aware.

One moment, the titular pea is just one among many heaped in a beautiful decorative bowl. The next, he’s standing with arms aloft declaring, “I am SO hungry!” But he doesn’t just have a little snack; no, he gulps down a Brussels sprout and makes his way down an elaborate banquet table, hoovering up all the food he encounters with hilariously messy results. 

Hodgkinson, who is known for her work on the British children’s TV shows “Charlie and Lola” and “Olobob Top,” as well as numerous books such as Troll Swap, has created a visual feast of a picture book replete with vibrant colors, intricate patterns and expressive characters, such as the observant cat, who gapes at the pea’s antics—which include comical repurposing of the lacy tablecloth. 

Inspired by “There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly,” The Princess and the (Greedy Pea) is also a cumulative rhyme. The text grows (along with the pea) as the pages turn, adding lines such as “It made him sneeze / when he guzzled the CHEESE” onto the refrain “Without a doubt / he swallowed a sprout. / What’s that about?” 

The fairy tale “The Princess and the Pea” is folded in as well: It turns out a purple-clad princess was anticipating the feast. Alas, the louche legume has consumed nearly every crumb and left behind a graveyard of broken crockery, so the frustrated princess must go to bed hungry. But her bed is so uncomfortable! Kids will crack up when they realize why. The Princess and the (Greedy) Pea is a slyly funny, wonderfully rendered reimagining of children’s classics that will have kids clamoring for a reread—and a giant bowl of green peas, too.

tree. In order to get more fruit, Baby Bear needs to climb. As he begins to make the long trek up the tree, he runs into other red creatures: a tiny caterpillar, a frisky squirrel and a rambunctious hive of bees. Still, there is no fruit to be found!

But what’s that coming up over the horizon? It’s big and red and beautiful, and Baby Bear leaps to grab it—but tumbles back down to the world below, passing his newfound friends and falling back into the safety of Mama Bear’s arms.

Curiosity is the driving force behind Lee Gee Eun’s picture book The Red Fruit, which captures the natural wonder that all kids experience through Baby Bear’s desire to see what fruits he can find at the top of the tree. The book’s message doesn’t need to be subtle to be sweet: If kids try something and fall, their own Mama Bear (or the equivalent parental figure in their life) will be there to catch them.

Lee’s international honors include the Bologna Ragazzi Award. Her black-and-white artwork shines in The Red Fruit, where her minimalist illustrations create a landscape that feels wide despite the book’s trim size. Baby Bear’s quirky facial expressions are adorable and perfectly portray a child’s unbridled inquisitiveness. Lee’s splashes of red and yellow against the monochrome world will offer a great introduction to color for parents and teachers looking to educate.

Pair this sweet and beautifully illustrated story with Cat Min’s Shy Willow, Corey R. Tabor’s Mel Fell, and Grace Lin’s A Big Mooncake For Little Star for story times that explore the risks and rewards of curiosity.

Pura Belpré Honor author Laekan Zea Kemp (Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet) offers a sweet ode to the special bond between grandmother and grandchild in A Crown for Corina, her first picture book.

Corina is celebrating her birthday in Abuela’s garden, where her grandmother helps her select meaningful blooms to incorporate into her flower corona, her very own crown. Abuela’s garden is the perfect place for a party, so full of flowers that Corina thinks it looks like “la tierra is throwing una fiesta.” 

At Abuela’s urging, Corina begins by choosing flowers that represent her family. There’s a happy sunflower for Mamá, who loves the color yellow, a bluebonnet that reminds Corina of her pet rabbit’s fluffy tail, morning glories that pay tribute to Abuelo’s trumpet and more. Next, Abuela asks Corina to add flowers that symbolize who she wants to grow up to become, and Corina picks sunny esperanzas for hope, daisies for strength and mistflowers for their sweet scent that draws butterflies. As Corina explores Abuela’s garden, she discovers a language she never knew before, “one spoken not in words but in the prick of a cactus needle, in the bright orange plums of a bird of paradise, and in the sweet scent of a chocolate cosmos.”

Finally, Abuela places the corona on Corina’s head and reminds her granddaughter that to wear a flower crown is to “become its roots, reaching back through time to hold on to the things that matter.” Corina realizes that she will carry the memory of this day spent with her Abuela forever.

Kemp incorporates Spanish words and phrases throughout the text as she welcomes readers into Corina’s family’s stories. Kemp’s use of sensory imagery is especially well done, enabling the reader to experience not only the way Abuela’s garden looks but also how it smells, sounds and feels. Kemp’s lyrical prose blends seamlessly with Elise Chavarri’s cheerful, detailed watercolor artwork to create a lively Eden bursting with hummingbirds, honey bees, blossoms and butterflies. Her spreads are filled with vivid greens and warm, saturated magentas and oranges that reflect Corina’s own feelings of lightness and joy.  

Just like Abuela’s garden grows with care, Corina feels supported and loved by her family as she grows another year older. A Crown for Corina is a moving portrayal of the connections between family members, generations, the earth, the past and a very bright future. 

“We are all just hearts / beating in the darkness.” In All the Beating Hearts, poet Julie Fogliano and illustrator Cátia Chien take readers on an impressionistic journey through a single day, capturing the interior and exterior worlds of humans. 

Fogliano’s text captures joy, wonder, tedium and sorrow. “Each day starts with the sun / and hopefully something to eat,” Fogliano writes, acknowledging food scarcity. Most of us spend our days on the move, spending our hours on “work / or play / or work AND PLAY.” Some days are filled with love, and “some days we will curl up / and wish to be / any / other / place.” 

When night arrives, we slip into dreams, and our hearts beat with the message that “we are here / and alive / together but apart / the same, but exactly different.” Fogliano repeats that phrase, “the same, but exactly different” toward the end of the book as well, offering a refreshing antidote to the we’re-not-so-different platitudes of seemingly progressive picture books that, in practice, deny differences such as race, gender and disability. 

Chien meets Fogliano’s evocative words with lush, atmospheric illustrations awash with color. In a wordless spread depicting a night of dreams, children float in an abstract cloud rendered in warm shades of rose and yellow, surrounded by scribbled amorphous creatures. In another spread, a child illustrated in full color and backlit by a bright light stands in a crowd of people all drawn in jagged shades of gray. “Everyone is busy being / everywhere and everything else / and all those beating hearts / are still there, but struggling / to be heard above it all.” 

The connections between those hearts, which beat within us “strong and steady and sure,” is the stuff of life, Fogliano seems to be saying. This tender, compassionate picture book invites readers to ponder this notion with wonder—and all of their hearts.  

A powerful picture book about the transatlantic slave trade, Kwame Alexander and Dare Coulter’s An American Story opens with a question: “How do you tell a story that starts in Africa and ends in horror?” It might seem an impossible topic to teach children, and yet, as the book’s title suggests, it’s an essential part of our national origin story.

Alexander and Coulter approach the subject by interspersing historical information with scenes of a group of students and their teacher discussing these events in a modern-day classroom. For instance, after Alexander offers a list of types of work that enslaved people were forced to do “FOR FREE,” such as “planting corn” and “harvesting coffee,” a student responds, “Why weren’t they paid? That’s not fair.” 

Coulter’s artwork, nearly six years in the making, is striking and exceptional. In addition to charcoal sketches (which illustrate the contemporary scenes) and rich, full-color paintings, Coulter created clay sculptures of enslaved people, which he then photographed and incorporated into the book’s illustrations, bringing remarkable dimensionality to the book’s art.

It’s impossible to overstate how impactful Coulter’s illustrations can be. They convey the joy of children playing games around a glowing fire and the peace of lying down to rest among long blades of green grass, but also the terror and sadness of people shackled together in the holds of ships and the suffering of a man with a rope around his neck, “sold like cattle” away from his family. 

In fact, the classroom teacher becomes overwhelmed by the lesson. “It’s just too painful,” she tells her students. “I shouldn’t have to read this to you.” Her interjection serves as a helpful pause for readers, allowing them to consider what they’ve read and process their own reactions to it. It also marks the book’s turning point. “Don’t you tell us to always speak the truth,” a student asks, “even when it’s hard?” The text then highlights people who exemplify “speaking up and speaking out” such as Sojourner Truth and Robert Smalls.

An American Story closes with a glorious spread that merges the art styles of past and present, as a clay-sculpture woman places her hand under the chin of a sketched student. In the text, the teacher’s final question (“How do you tell a story this hard to hear, one that hurts and still loves?”) gets its powerful answer: “by holding history in one hand and clenching hope in the other.” Coulter places all of his sketches on yellow backgrounds, and in this pivotal moment, the backdrop takes on a brilliant, radiant glow.

An American Story will not be an easy book to read, and adults should take care when introducing it to very young children. Nonetheless, its pages are filled with needful truths. Alexander’s sensitive, poetic text and Coulter’s majestic art provide a stellar framework for young Americans to learn about their country’s history.