The car is heavy with children <br />tugged back from summer, <br />swept out of their laughing beach, <br />swept out while a persistent rumour <br />tells them nothing ends. <br />Today we fret and pull <br />on wheels, ignore our regular loss <br />of time, count cows and others <br />while the sun moves over <br />like an old albatross <br />we must not count nor kill. <br />There is no word for time. <br />Today we will <br />not think to number another summer <br />or watch its white bird into the ground. <br />Today, all cars, <br />all fathers, all mothers, all <br />children and lovers will <br />have to forget <br />about that thing in the sky, <br />going around <br />like a persistent rumor <br />that will get us yet.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-road-back/
