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?
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