Into Its Tributaries Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lining up in the judgment of the
New rain:
What will the children do?
What will they sing?
High above them, their vacant mother
Has turned into another mountain,
Trying to touch the airplane:
She doesn’t know what
To say to them anymore- her tears
Are not the rain.
The playground remains vacant-
The stone classroom only has its flag:
They gather up to go
But they do not know how they
Will get there they lose
Themselves as they go there,
Like a river winnowed into its tributaries,
Until there is no more passion
One way or another, and, individually,
They understand that they have
Gone too far.