Epitaph for the Children Drowned in the River

Drawn from the river, the children are laid in the

Meadow. We wait for the children to speak. They lie

Like actors acting sleep. Their talent is great; it frightens

Us. The meadow fills with wonder & grief. We can do

Nothing that matters. Someone suggests we fashion a tent.

But no one can shape the emptiness.

And someone suggests we carry them home. But home is a

Word. And this is a world that has no words.

We wait outside.

The stride of the sun, thinking the children may soon

"Jump up." (We know how children play.) But these are the

ones

That do not move. Maybe the gaudy light has frightened

them.

We stare through glassy air, outside their reticence. We

Watch the water dry from strands of their hair. Their

costumes

Seem so slight, so thin. We ponder the decencies of death.

We tell ourselves: All we can do is leave them here,

Until they have finished this sad pretense, until they

Get up, all weary with games, & arm in arm (tomorrow

Perhaps?), come rushing rushing back to us.