The little kids know there's something going on here
The grownups don't notice anything
Even when a bike almost skids across their feet
The little kids can sense it
Like they can sense the rain
Or a teacher's disapproval
Or the nearness of a school day's end
The way that they sense that no one mourns
For the little baby bird crushed
In a flatiron press of hollow bones, hollow feathers
Because they still hear the birds sing
And a crushed bird is a sour note
An unfinished melody
The little kids know that
And in the cataclysmic torrent
The chaotic inferno that marks
The beginning and the end of thought
Why am I so glad
That the children can't sense aging?
A POEM by Jen Frankel. Use the search engine at the top to learn more about Frankel. OR CLICK HERE and read her BIO!
LITTLE KIDS
