They come to me like orphans seeking homes—
All restless, gazing meekly at their feet:
The little thoughts with some slight air of poems,
Too shy to say “I long to be complete.”
Oh, what to do? I have to let them in,
These raffish urchins—babbling, scratching heads . . .
They scatter, raiding every nook and bin,
Then wrestle, bouncing, on my just-made beds
Till I instruct them how to mind themselves:
To hush when ordered, help with laundering,
To dress up nicely, organize their shelves,
Learn lessons, and smile brightly when they sing.
Someday, I hope they’ll grow up strong and tall
And speak adroitly, but with passion too . . .
I’ll beam when people ask, “Are they yours? All?”
I’ll say, “Well, now they are,” and know it’s true.