Children beneath my window

Norm Walker

The shade is pulled against my open window;
Deep and full, my room is dark.

Will I ever wake from this half-sleep?

I hear their voices
Beneath my window sill:
Though they talk of worms and earth,
In their wet hands that softly slap
They will give birth to something warm.

I will not dine upon their mud-cream cake.

The shade flaps
Against my window pane;
A breeze seems to curtain back the dark
To send a chill to raise me
From my dream

They are not there.

A plot of cool spring ground,
Awaiting rain,
Lies bare in no sun
To clear the fog.

Somewhere down the street
I hear a child’s voice call a dog;
There is a whine and then a bark...
I wait...no other sound...

Night settles fast;
And now cold clods
Will fall full hard
Upon my pine.


(This poem was first published in Puckerbrush Review,
Summer/Fall 2001.)



April, 2008