Children beneath my window
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,
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,
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