Crayons
Maples in the yard, sycamores in the
fields, elms on the way to work.
Yellow and red and orange and brown,
scarlet and blue-green side by side,
like in a box of crayons.
As we climb the Alleghenies,
the car strains to reach the look-out,
where we can see, veiled by hills and trees,
a hundred miles of towns and cities.
At the local diner,
the children connect the dots
and draw their own notion of Autumn.
Mountains full of bare limbs, skeletons.
Some hold on to what they’ve got,
and keep their beauty
a little longer.
We want everything to last
a little longer.
Like a box of crayons.
Broken, they work.
*
Richard Bloom has worked as an advertising creative, a seller of men’s suits, a caregiver, and a public school substitute teacher. He has taught children as young as five how to write poetry. His poems have appeared in various literary magazines, including ONE ART and FEED. Home is New York, where he has been involved for several years assisting in the rehabilitation of injured birds.
