It was late in the fall and he knew that soon he would be returning home from work in darkness and there would be no more evening walks in the woods. And on this day he was energetic and in no hurry for dinner and so when he came to his usual turning point on the path he instead went ahead and blazed through bushes and over fallen logs and down the hill. He pushed through until he came to the edge of the woods. He knew he could not be far from his familiar home and yet here at the edge of the woods he saw a dirt road that he did not recognize. He had never seen this road before and he stepped out of the woods bewildered and yet intrigued and followed the road through the forest until he came into a clearing where stood an old, red-brick schoolhouse. Although the building was quite obviously of another era – three stories tall and slate-roofed – it was well maintained. The schoolyard was as neat as a garden and the windows were clean and through them he could see into the classrooms – at least those on the first floor – and he saw that, while the classrooms were empty this late in the day, they had been in recent use, probably that very day, as the blackboards all bore lessons and the walls were filled with children’s artwork and written papers. He pressed against the nearest window and could see one child’s paper pinned to the near wall that he could read. It was a poem.
I write to save the time of day
I write to pass the time away
I write to mark each golden hour
The tree, the bush, the happy flower
I never want to leave this place
My grateful heart is filled with grace.