And Then - Poem by Leslie Philibert
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
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.
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