By Richard Schiffman
Up from the fountain
the babble of children,
drenched with surprise. Alive!
The rain of their syllables
does not strain to speech,
their glottal whoops and yells
never jell to full-fledged
words or phrases.
Parents hover bird-like
by their brood. Parents fan
and fan their little flames.
And I, alone, the childless one,
sit purposeless, yet not in vain.
Before language was, the rain
Children’s voices pouring
from the sky. I close my eyes
and let it wash my dust.
