Slow Children at Play by Cecilia Woloch
All the quick children have gone inside, called
by their mothers to hurry-up-wash-your-hands
and only the slow children out on the lawns, marking off
paths between fireflies, making soft little sounds with their mouths, ohs
that glow and go out and glow. And their slow mothers flickering,
pale in the dusk, watching them turn in the gentle air, watching them
twirling, their arms spread wide, thinking, These are my children, thinking,
Where is their dinner? Where has their father gone?
I came across this poem a few weeks ago and it got me thinking. Maybe we need slow children and slow mothers and a slower lifestyle, for the sake of our community.