Slow Children At Play

Sometimes you don’t get a poem until you revisit the title.  I know I must have been one of the slow children and this poem invites me to savor that.  Sometimes you are a slow child with a quick mother, too.

Slow Children at Play                              Cecilia Woloch

All the quick children have gone inside, called

by their mothers to hurry-up-wash-your-hands

honey-dinner’s-getting-cold, just-wait-till-your-father-gets-


and only the slow children are out on their 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 gone?


Please enter your comments here

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s