Debora Greger
Someone had propped a skateboard
by the door of the classroom,
to make quick his escape, come the bell.
For it was February in Florida,
the air of instruction thick with tanning butter.
Why, my students wondered,
did the great dead poets all live north of us?
Was there nothing to do all winter there
but pine for better weather?
Had we a window, the class could keep an eye
on the clock and yet watch the wild plum
nod with the absent grace of the young.
We could study the showy scatter of petals.
We could, for want of a better word, call it “snowy.”
The room filled with stillness, flake by flake.
Only the dull roar of air forced to spend its life indoors
could be heard. Not even the songbird
of a cell phone chirped. Go home,
I wanted to tell the horse on the page.
You know the way, even in snow
gone blue with cold.
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i was waiting for today, when the stormy skies would clear to open up the joyous blue skies of the heavens--waiting for the sunshine after the rain. i imagine those brooding, northern poets, bundled up by a fire, watching icicles drip from the roof, longing for better weather. each season has it's own unfolding beauty...but after a couple months of winter, i really look forward to warmth and to seeing cute green buds popping out of the rich soil. spring.
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