Lesson Plan

And so the lesson began,

a brief poem to read, “two roads diverged …”,

questions asked, questions answered,

metaphor and simile, rhyme and meter,

new vocabulary, a new way of seeing,

and a brief essay to write showing meaning,

understanding, new skills acquired;

 

then the announcement came:

“go into lockdown,

this is not a drill!”

 

So we sat huddled in the corner,

away from the door, away from the windows,

the lesson abandoned, the poem, the questions,

the answers, abandoned, too,  a new way

and the essay, unexplained

as we sat, quiet and still, scared

and sobbing, wide-eyed, wondering;

 

this is not the lesson I had planned.

February

Don’t be misled, deceived

by the higher temperatures,

20s, 30s, blue skies and sunshine;

or a rodent predicting winter’s end.

Heaven's Hunter

The heaven’s hunter, Orion, familiar, easily found,

steadfast, a blessing, perhaps, in times of change,

looks down upon us from his place in the winter sky,

a tear falling at the loss of our stories, our lives, our selves.

Still Small Voice

That still small voice we’re taught to listen to is not so still anymore,

nor small, a flurry now of arms and legs and chattering, toddler size,

that small voice I held on my lap and rocked to sleep, followed behind

his clumsy steps to dust off the dirt when he fell, set him aright, and off

we go, reminding me what’s important, where life and purpose lie,

          a voice discovering himself and the world,

                    growing and learning and becoming … Cam.

Foxes in my Yard

His paws are imprinted into the new fallen snow, leaving behind

a path to follow into his wintery world, meandering these woods

we share, but we will not follow him, nor seek him out as we face

our own wintery world of cold and snow and the tasks at hand;

perhaps, though, we should stop and, stumbling forward, seek him out

even as he seeks us here meandering, too: a message, an answer, a sign.

Music Lesson

And the chords were struck in the long, long ago,

some angel’s harp before time or Joshua’s trumpets

bringing down the walls of Jericho’s evil; today’s chords

are still resounding, the root and 3^rd and 5^th, the triad,

adding the octave, in clear tuned tones, long chords held

and arpeggios, up and down, steady and bold, a melody created,

its harmonies played, blending, logically, predictably, a pleasant

movement from phrase to phrase, C major to G to A minor and F,

new voices added, minor chords and diminished, augmented,

notes shifted up that ½ tone or down, changing moods, creating

tension, an emotional arc, or adding a 7^th, bridging the changes,

transitions, progressions from chord to chord, key to key

modulating, new harmonies built on these foundations,

like we who listen, like we who play, bridging ourselves

to the new chords we hear, new chords we perform, new lives we choose,

our own harmonies keeping us connected to the music of earth,

the music of life, embedded deeply into our very souls, this the soul

of mankind, of humanity, chords changing, transforming, like time

moving forward, keeping our melodies, our harmonies alive, dissonance

resolving in the perfect chord, the perfect harmonic, perfect accord.

And so the long cold of winter

continues, a season much colder longer this year, another year

older, colder, and the small birds that flock to my feeder

puff themselves up to stay warm while they patiently wait

their turn to select a seed and fly off to eat it in peace

in the warmth of a winter fir, to return again, puffed up

and patient, waiting, much as we all do, watching

and warm inside our homes and ourselves, waiting

our turns and the change of seasons ahead.

The Playground

This year, perhaps we should return to the playgrounds

of elementary school, our first introduction to the yards

that called us out to play, in sun or rain, out for recess

onto the grass and earth trodden below our small feet,

discovering the freedom of delight, of sharing ourselves,

and the pure enjoyment of others with us, shared

and sharing, long before the bullies came along,

when our size and shape and color, our burgeoning skills

developing, our differences and sameness didn’t matter,

not to us so young, not to the playground, the other children,

but only that we had each other; what mattered then,

those moments in that time in our lives, existing only for itself,

those moments held tightly in our imaginations where everything

good was possible, and that was enough in this little world we lived.

Oh, that we could carry that time with us into this new year,

that moment the ball drops and every moment we face moving

through the days, the months, the years ahead, the seasons beyond,

these seasons we shared there on the playground carried with us now,

where everything good is possible, and that is enough.