Scholastica Index Page ©1997-2006, Mount St. Scholastica, Inc.
I want to look long at
shoots and leaves--
at all roots and reasons
for be-ing once again.
I want to hear sparrows sing,
soft rains fall, and voices
that nudge me to nurture the
souls of things.
I want to taste berries,
(and--maybe--burritos)
new flavors of ice cream
and backyard cooking, and
savor long the caring of
those who came and call.
I want to smell roses,
lilacs and lillies, early morning air,
good coffee, and cake rich with
orange rind and cherries and
its giver's goodness.
I want to touch water and wood,
other's hands--everything alive,
so steeped in summer sunshine
and the glory of rebirth.
I want to feel pretty, at peace
with memories and surprises.
I want to pray and linger
over time in the open spaces
of my heart.
I want to hope,
and believe,
and love.
I want to live this spring.
This week's poem
didn't get written-
(or listened to
or shared).
What, in its place,
did, I ask,
in days divided,
in ways I
did not choose?
They came -- company--
unexpected,
from out of town, so good, kind,
(but here); and so-all-at-once--
new relatives
to know,
old friends
to re-love,
young students
to share a
world no longer mine
with.
And there were appointments
and
meetings
and
greetings
and even
deaths(and wakes and tears)
as the small Summer Session
of American Lit. II ended
and, overtired,
I stretched to teach
its final truths--the
Steinbeck, Hemingway,
and Faulkner,
still so favoritely mine.
Today, I'll
average grades and
reknow the
struggle that
evaluating,
and
calculating
always is for me,
but,
already, I
regret
that
this week's poem
didn't get written
(or listened to
or shared),
until now,
and I wanted
you to know.
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©1997-2006, Mount St. Scholastica, Inc.