They Come, Growling

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Foster Dickson

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Everything was tomorrow. 

But not now. 

Some was yesterday, and most went 

by unnoticed. That one kid 

humanized what was left over, and 

the green sprouts went on, shooting 

up. The hard brown dirt allowed little 

cracks, and what was before unseen, 

unknown, came to take the place of what 

went away. That one kid went away, and gave 

his name to that part of the story.

We’ve agonized over 

these memories, but it has been 

OK in the end—or as close to the end 

as we are now. 

Within the glory days of springtime 

into summer, we’ve morphed, ossified, 

and even begged for mercy when it was 

appropriate. Marble columns fall 

and shatter, where saplings may sway 

and return upright. Some had fatal

flaws: a split in the trunk, a lightning 

strike, a creeping disease.

Yes, luring the future with a trail of sweets 

that we should have eaten ourselves 

gave us the impression that the sacrifice 

was worth it.

We swindled sidewinders for small guarantees, 

just for today, because we opted to worry 

about their fangs for all time.

 

They come, growling,

out of some need for our wilting.

That one kid stayed behind, and I

kept going, and now we aren’t 

recognized anymore,

except by those who can’t forget.

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Foster Dickson carving a pumpkin with his daughter when she was two years old.

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Foster Dickson is a writer, editor, and award-winning teacher in Montgomery, Alabama. His most recent book Faith. Virtue. Wisdom was commissioned for the 150th anniversary of Montgomery Catholic Preparatory School.

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