I’m the child of your rainy Sundays.
I watched time crawl
Over the ceiling
Like a wounded fly.
A day would last forever,
Making pellets of bread,
Waiting for a branch
On a bare tree to move.
The silence would deepen,
The sky would darken,
As Grandmother knitted
With a ball of black yarn.
I know Heaven’s like that.
In eternity’s classrooms,
The angels sit like bored children
With their heads bowed.
- Charles Simic
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Driving Home by Charles Simic
Stone - Another awesome poem by Charles Simic.
Poetry - Schmoetry. Stuff that rhyme and shit.Books by Charles Simic:
