The angels of May make the seven
gray steps down and enter the clean sunlight.
Along the sidewalk, they move in pairs or in clusters
In solidarity on their way away from the severe
dark building where they learn to be good citizens.
In the ripple of Spring, in their plaid wraparound
skirts, sharply pleated, worn (their choice) up enough
to reveal burgeoning limbs caught between hem and
long socks, there are glimpses of the quality of
destination explorers have gladly died for: These are
perfectly in bloom art flowers!
Now, at lunchtime, they wave and frolic, dash and
dive, giving up squeals of glee and bursts of temper
in gamely fashion under the city branches, some on swings
kick at the sky with outstretched legs, as if they wanted to
leave the world; some sit in groups on the grass in bonding
arrangements, making sisterly gestures, at ease in their abstractions,
and on this oasis, what secrets shared, what plans hatched,
what crushes formed in their eager young hearts!
And when a silent bell sounds it is time to put down the recreations and
return to the cold building where instruction is bought for future advantage
when they will be harnessed to their adult woes, although for the time being,
they float automatically in procession, resigned to the remainder of their day
like angels in the afternoon.