What A Teacher Hears At The End Of Summer

Back in the classroom,
chairs and desks stacked,
floor free of scuffs,
I hear them.

I hear them coming,
mid saunter, mid convo,
jabbing texts,
snapping gum.

Even as they procrastinate
summer homework,
I hear them coming:

Inevitable as summer
showers and the colors
October and November
painting fall,

sure as winter
will arrive in tow
of ghosts of low
expectations
diminished through
practice and will,

I hear them coming
like clouds hear the cry of soil
under the lush Georgia fields
ready to drink up their rain.

They don’t even know it,
but I hear them coming.

And I will be here
like a storm.

The Classroom

Whatever happens here
matters more later.

So whatever we do
must matter now too.

 

 

 

Image by Don Harder.