"All the quick children have gone inside..."

"Untitled (butterflies and shed)" by Gregory Crewdson

(found: here, uncropped version: here)

I find the following poem so haunting, and I can't even explain why. What do you think? What effect does it have on you? And doesn't the photo just capture it?

"Slow Children at Play"

by Cecilia Woloch

All the quick children have gone inside, called

by their mothers to hurry-up-wash-your-hands

honey-dinner's-getting-cold, just-wait-till-your-father-gets-home-

and only the slow children out on the lawns, marking off

paths between fireflies, making soft little sounds with their mouths, ohs

that glow and go out and glow. And their slow mothers flickering,

pale in the dusk, watching them turn in the gentle air, watching them

twirling, their arms spread wide, thinking, These are my children, thinking,

Where is their dinner? Where has their father gone?