morning poem, march 31, 2016




The men who built our schoolhouse

Had just won the Great War

And something of the old order

Still lived in them


And so the building was red brick

Three stories high

With rows of tall windows in every classroom


Their children would have light

And a view of the sky and the Earth

Green and pleasant

The brick streets and trimmed lawns.


I stood once in that hallway

Where the light poured through the clean glass

And thought about tradition

All that had gone before, every price that had been paid


And I was afraid and emboldened

As it all weighed down on me

And I wondered where my lot would be

And who would help me on the way.


Copyright 2016


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