Ansel Elkins

All our pretty sons on the playground
running in bright colors, their high, bright voices ringing out.
Now the slides, now climbing, now leaping from swings.
They’re wonder-struck at the sight of
a green maple tree spilling its magic,
waving its arms at blue sky. They are so little, the language
of violence hasn’t yet entered them.
Older boys haven’t yet taught them how to be cruel.