Summer 1988 • Vol. X No. 3 Poetry |

The Children

This is where they swarmed from prairie mornings, Cold with solitude, to learn: the one-room Schoolhouse, empty now, broken and aslant On the skyline, birds nesting in the stove, The sun trespassing in the attic. Bees Have found a home inside the hollow wall And hum all afternoon behind the cracked Slate blackboard where children made their sums Add up a century ago, and scrawled Their names, until the fields reclaimed their own To write their lives in furrows on the soil For years beneath the sun, against the day That each would find his nameless cell below The hive of broken headstones down the road.

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