Growing Cold of Night

A teacher, I often covet the hours after school, a time to imagine and play. Guess I’m still just a kid: however night comes and play must end, as must childhood.

After School

Children spill
from their buses,

marbles from a bag,
tumble down

the streets,
down grassy hills,

between the trees
where shadows grow,

the blooming cold
of night.

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2 thoughts on “Growing Cold of Night

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