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-

home—

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

flickering,

pale in the dusk, watching them turn in the gentle air, watching

them

twirling, their arms spread wide, thinking, These are my

children, thinking.

Where is their dinner? Where has their father gone?

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