A Little Span

In the mornings it is the birds in the trees In the evenings it is children inthe street Morning drifts to noon And noon becomes night Before we can count the fallen leaves of day I played under trees Where birds held daily choir rehearsals And thought nothing of roles or reversals Turning the pot to clay The contents spilled every which way And the curtain hiding us From the noisy children in the street. A little span of time Can do so much to the muttering of dreams I keep picking up The shards of my belief From every fresh invention Littering my heart with grief ... Why do the children play in the streets at evening?