Slow Children at Play
All the quick children have gone inside, called
by their mothers to hurry-up-wash-your-hands
and only the slow children out on the lawns, marking off
paths between fireflies, making soft little sounds with their mouths, ohs, that glow and go out and glow. And their slow mothers
pale in the dusk, watching them turn in the gentle air, watching
twirling, their arms spread wide, thinking, These are my children, thinking, Where is their dinner? Where has their father
from Late, 2004
BOA Editions Ltd.
Copyright 2004 Cecilia Woloch.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced with permission (click
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