The fourth graders

in their 10-year-old exuberance

are doing a unit on poetry.

Their poems,

markered on bright construction paper,

line the hall outside their classroom.

 

Eager words and passionate phrases

leap,

hiss,

and beckon,

with those “strong” verbs

the teacher insists that they use.

 

Some, polished and proper,

some, witty and warm,

some, raw and real,

the author’s young heart pulsing through the paper.

 

Ice cream, puppies, horses, soccer…

subjects they know inside and out.

One boy, a shy dreamer,

questions in his slanted block letters

“When do seeds know to become trees?”

    W  O  W.

 

Thank you, poetry,

for your ocean of expression,

your glowing presence inside us all.

Bless these fourth grade souls

with your magic.

Keep your flame burning inside them

long after they finish this unit.