Crisp mornings, but they’re more often lethargic
Slow
And syrupy,
We shuffle into her classroom,
Slosh through the school
Through the mediocrity and the browning hallways
And in there, in that room, the world is sharpened
Everything is clear and crystal, the edges blurred by lights and magic
But the focus stronger than anywhere
Else
And she’ll sit in front of us all, her
Tired army, not ready to march onward, worn out and strung through with too much
But she never hesitates,
Bursting with energy, and the colors of language spill like water from her mouth
And envelop us all, tracing our hearts
Until we’re one
And by the end of the period we’ll go our separate ways
And the army will face separate battles
But there’s one mixed emotion that we all share,
Blurred and stirred
Into her hand; into her coffee cup.