I was taking Rose, David, and three of their friends off for a rain walk last night. It was pouring buckets. The block party was cancelled, but we were undeterred. We threw on boots, slickers, grabbed umbrellas and stomped our puddle wonderful way down the street. The girls started chanting "David woke me up yelling in the hallway . ." and I realized, as they went on for three stanzas, that they were chanting my poem, the one I had written to teach them about making the music of the words match the meaning.

I have never in my life had someone memorize my poem, delight in my poem, stomp in the rain to the music of my poem.

It's not a great poem. I wrote it in an hour. Their attention honored and humbled me. They deserve my best efforts. They made me want to be a children's poet.

Things Fall Apart

David woke me up
yelling in the hallway.
Daddy said get dressed
before I watched t.v.

The black pants, dirty.
The flowered pants, dirty.
The pink flowered shirt, stained and dirty.

Mommy didn't wait,
poured the milk too early.
When I finally got a bite,
no crunch, soggy.

Then I heard the old tape
on the star making chart
(the one I'd made myself)
rip.

Hydrogen left helium.
Helium left carbon.
Carbon left oxygen.

etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Deborah Bacharach