Children In Summer
School has been closed for two weeks now,
and every sun
is a giant kaleidoscope,
spilling a confetti of children
across the green tablecloth of the park.
Aimless as mercury,
Shriller than splintered glass, they spatter,
until the huge grey blotting paper
soaks them up in September.
Shattering Of Time
Under a watered-down October sun
my neighbor's small girl cried
at sobbing intervals all afternoon.
An angry wind had torn the last gold leaves
from the old maple tree
and no one could ever put them back.
The wrens had left their nests and disappeared
beyond the hills where darkness lay.
Time was shattering her world
around small sandalled feet.
Even with eyes squeezed shut,
all her focussed concentration could not stem
the cresting tide of seasons
for one who had known so few.