The Child’s Hour

A poem of solitary play

Photo by Hannah Busing on Unsplash

It wasn’t a Children’s Hour
but a time of one child
who had little time to be
a child.

Nor had she interest
in childish things —
gifted toys gathered dust
in closed closets,
dolls sat unchanging
on an untouched bed
where no one slept.

She read and wrote unread poetry,
often late into the night
when no one knew and
no one cared.

She played with dogs,
cats and lizards,
ducks and ponies,
burros and goats —
hairy, scaly or feathery friends
always there, always
waiting for her.

She climbed fences,
roamed forests,
rowed boats and
sat with cows
in sunny fields.

Her play hours were stolen
from a mother’s chores
that a child did —
hours of gold and green
and cobalt blue,
snatched, sequestered…