The Playground

Over the playground where

ancient and wizened trees

touch odors to the air

to draw the latest bees,

children swarm on the lawn,

muss the grass with their toes...

What can they touch of dawn

-what sweetness-as it goes?

Dew, that will turn to tears

and trickle through their sleep

and through their future years,

till they, they too, are old

and in their wisdom weep

a honey dark and cold.