Jumbling down the street beneath
umbrellas of colored cellophane,
these turned-up crescents full of teeth
are children, blooming in the rain.
Like stained glass mushrooms come alive,
whose powers at last are unconfined,
this motley squad of four or five
is death on sight to a gloomy mind.
Squealing, splashing, wet as snails–
their mothers dressed them warm today
and now they all drag furry tails–
the coats that Spring should pack away.
Sunshine erupts, with rare bad taste,
baking the splash right out of those
in whom a sudden hope was placed.
Betrayed, they drip, and pout and pose.
Their shelters folded turn to swords,
with all hands now repelling boarders.
Past squealing quickly, they now use words,
and some now give, and some take, orders.
Old Gloomy would lose heart at this,
but sees a dark cloud on the way
and stands his ground, afraid to miss
the birth of laughter twice in a day.
I wait. Quite soon that shriveled plume
wrapped round each fighting stick will bloom.
They’ll play. Old me will stand in thrall,
and water will fall and fall and fall.
© 2009 Edmund Pickett
(This poem may be copied or forwarded as long as
you retain the copyright notice and author’s name)
Tags: Birth of Laughter, edmund pickett, poem