In the Park of an Evening

1.

Tender and shrill are the voices
of children all,

their gestures vivid on the wall
where shadows fall.

To me it's a silly game.
There is no ball
and nothing I observe stays the same.

Shadows grow tall.
A chill breeze blows from the hill.
Now mothers call.

I accept I’m the one who is missing.
Night recalls us all.

2.

I don't know why I am crying
or why tears come.

This evening, as on other evenings,
I have sat alone
and listened to children calling;

how mothers’ tongues
like sonar
seek out the ears of their children
to bring them home.

These calls are thrown
like stones
skipping over a pond.

3.

Were I a turtle
and not a slow swimmer at that,
I could trace the sound
that mothers
send after their children:
each call specific.

It speaks of love
that in the rush at the surface
is often lost.
But here in the mud at the bottom
love does hang on.

Here loss of love is uncommon.

4.

But that doesn’t say why I'm crying.
Do I cry for loss?
Or cry because I am happy?
It's a nickel's toss.
Heads or tails doesn’t make a great difference.

Let's say I cry
for a thought I have never finished
and the reasons why
my thoughts
are so disconnected.

Perhaps, it’s the certain fear
that only as we remember are we truly here.