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.
[sc name="ad-300x600"]
The Classroom
Whatever happens here
matters more later.
So whatever we do
must matter now too.
Image by Don Harder.
