The Children

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Dinnertime comes vociferously
like a bell, sharply bringing
the children to the table, to their
full plates, to the food they will eat, and the food
they will push aside as if this nourishment is plentiful as air.
I sit and watch their
faces, almost as if i dont know them, as they awkwardly put food into their mouths,
and again, countless times
I am stunned by the freshness.
These are scarcely the faces of children.
These are tiny suns with eyes and ears and
the powers of speech.
Their mouths run
and their words spill out like
playful rivers.

I know that this scene will
all evaporate, rise and
vanish as steam.
This scene will be human dust someday.
Gone, gone, gone! All of them gone!

So they laugh on, these children,
their dinnertime noises dancing,
oblivious to what is
lurking behind my eyes.

And I cling to my own fork.
I cling to my crumpled napkin.
I cling to whatever will
hold back the tears
as I stare at this small
family of growing, giggling flowers.


© Lamont Palmer

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