Monday, February 18, 2008

To Boredom



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: