[Charlie Southerland]

When Plains Collide

Down here, the children watch the verdant plains
out of second story windows each day.
The teacher steps out for a few, away
from view with issues, wipes mascara stains
from her eyes and returns with covert pains,
a remembrance of lost love this past May.
At recess, the children go out to play
until the thunder chases them. It rains
here in June before school lets out, the leaves
tremble with drops; a thousand Aztec suns
couldn't dry her tears any more than sheaves
of tissues could, or make the babies' breath
come back to life or slow the clock that runs
for cover under attack to its death.