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And Then

Outside I hear the sounds of children,
the sounds do not get louder or softer,

just a small stone in the hand of a morning,
legs splayed and weak obscurely in cotton,

falling asleep again I scramble up a nightslope,
dirt and gravel shoot from underneath my bare feet

and then

I dream of my first day at school, the smell of
stale milk and wet raincoats, the crying of lost children.

This is an unexpected return, as if I will never wake again
to the sound of the paperboy opening the creaky gate.

poem by Leslie Philibert
Added by Poetry Lover
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