There Is in Children

There is in children an inexorable mockery.

They step with my step

to the same brittle music

played out by time.

And their pleasures multiply

(like mine).

The sun glistens on their limbs.

Even the winter longs to stay

on their sweet breath.

As their days fall like dappled dominoes

touching each other

into unsettled repose

I taste their laughter

in the tongue of my throat.

And upward, behind my eyes,

I hear the range of their voices

in tears I have held

since I could do no more

with time.