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
and only the slow children are out on their lawns, marking off
paths between fireflies, making soft little sounds with their
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
Where is their dinner? Where has their father gone?