In my post, “To My Betsy”, in the introducing paragraph where I say, in part, –
“…. they (my poems) may run aground of certain rules about poetry writing, they may be crude in their construction, they may be awful to those with rigid guidelines and they may be boring….” –
– well, that sentiment might be invoked here with this poem I wrote years ago. But if you have had a similar situation, maybe you’ll enjoy it.
I am sure that this ‘ritual’ – the yellow bus – would have gone by unnoticed and taken for granted, if our son hadn’t been born twelve years later than our last girl, Betsy. Amy and Betsy are approximately fourteen (14) months apart.
In a future post, I might address how wonderful it has been to have had Matthew much later than the girls and the effect it has garnered in the life of my wife and I. But for now, here is the Yellow Bus.
The Yellow Bus
I’m watching out the window at the road down where it crosses
over the bridge that crosses Sugar Creek.
Though the road is hard to see because of the trees that have
grown up along the river’s edge, I can see the tops
of the cars as they move across the bridge.
And since the clock on the wall tells me it’s time, I, thus,
stare a little more intently for the school’s yellow bus.
The school’s yellow bus has been coming for years to pick up
the girls with its loud grinding gears.
And Matthew has watched and waved all along, with a heart full
of secrets and a bag full of songs, that he’s sung to himself
a thousand times and more while watching the girls on the bus,
through the door.
But the years have gone by and the school’s yellow bus picks up
not two girls, but two girls and a ‘plus.’
The waiting has passed as the three stand and wait for the sound
of gears that pierce the morning fog; it moves ever so
closer towards the farm and its dog.
The situation’s quite similar but the players have changed like,
instead of Jenny, Rusty or Kelly waiting, it’s now Molly’s
range as she faithfully and eagerly says her good-byes to the
girls and Matthew then lays down with a sigh and watches as the
bus pulls away and heads down the curve, out of sight for the day.
And so I sit and stare at the bridge and wait for a glimpse of
the school’s yellow bus bringing back what is mine that it took
hours earlier and thus, on goes the cycle that has gone on
for years except, now I am older with noisier gears.
But my heart is still yearning and misses a beat whenever I”m
thinking of little girls and boys and big yellow buses
and all of those seats holding our dreams, isn’t it neat?
The buses will surely keep rolling from sight long after
I’ve withered and gone on with my life. For buses are
hauler of all of our dreams in polka-dot shirts and washed out
And I’ll always remember when I look at a farm and pass the
yellow buses stopped at a lane; I’ll remember the threesome
that left out our door, each morning in sunshine and
sometimes in rain.
“The bus is here, dad. I’m going to school.” so said Matthew, the last of our
kids to get on the bus.