The table and the chairs are short, but I fit.
Teachers know how to fold into child-size.
I organize my paper, felt, and beads
because our children will still come--
full of chatter, zest, and growing pains--
oblivious for now of the children far away--
killed in school.
A coworker and I speak of it (waiting for the children to come)
in wondering, brief, numb attempts to understand.
I finish today's holiday craft: stick a bit of yarn fuzz
on the baby's bead head and lay him in a "manger."
Merciful Savior, there are no words for this--
only wailing.
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