I can only imagine
flying kites with you
as the sun sets
and the stars cross.

"What dew drops is, Miss W?"

Where do I start?
What dew drops is?
Should I address the syntactic structure of that question?
Should I even bother to correct the grammar here? Will it matter?
Or will this student roll their eyes because they've heard it all before?
They know how to speak properly. They simply choose not to.
Or that, at least, is the opinion of many of my contemporaries.
I don't know how I feel. I can't form an opinion about anything.
I'm too young.
Not much older than the 18-year-old squeezing into that tiny desk asking
What dew drops is?

Should I go into a scientific explanation about
how the heating and the cooling of the earth,
each rising and setting of the sun,
affects condensation?
I'm not even exactly sure how it works.
I apparently know more than this kid.
What dew drops is?

Have they ever been outside?
Have they been up early in the morning or late into the night?
Of course they have. This is high school.
There is no sleep.
When I was in high school, I woke up before dawn and worked late into the night.
I knew what dew was because it dampened my pant legs
as I walked to my car in the morning and at night.

What dew drops is?
Is this a real question?
Is this really what one addresses in a 12th grade English class?
Shouldn't I be sharing the true meaning of literature?
Or some life-altering insight into a canonical work?

No. I teach English at a high school.
And that means I answer questions like
"What dew drops is?"

And I love it.

Does sleep visit you often?
How do you lay upon your bed?
Do you ride the REM drug?
Do you dream?
Do your eyes dry and crumble?
Can you feel anything?
Do you wake up in a cold sweat?
Do you wake up tasting colors?

Do you wake up wising you were someone else?

Reading a book in the sun
can get you so absorbed in
what you're reading
that when you look up

it's as if everything around you
were new.

You're staring at yourself
For the first time wondering:

Is that really me?

Is this my life?

Surely not.
I belong in this book.

I suppose that's what
happened
to Don Quixote.

from the flat, scorched fields of Nebraska
to the rugged, snowy tops of Alaska
we danced a jig - no, a rap
swaying beautifully to the beat
of a one-two step
loving and fearing and trusting
and listening

Threads twisted and crossed
until a beautiful know came into view, untying impossible.

Ups and downs and a deluge of life
produced permanent stains on the separate strings
playing a harmony never equaled or paralleled.

It began as a single note
and quickly progressed to chords and
talented fingerpicking.

A unique song
that echoes  off peaks, across the plains, to the valley.

And life came again
separating the melodies
tearing them apart.

And they screak in protest
knowing that they will play together again
and decorate the terrain
with joy.

Memories alone let them
spread their wings and

SOAR

She walks next to me
like she'll walk next to me
forever.

I dreamt I had potpourri for supper.
I had candle wax for dessert.
I walked home on a Persian rug.
and I slept on a bed of blueberries.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

I dreamt I was swinging on a wooden swing
hanging freely from Orion's belt.
Waves of something.odd and something.frightening
splashed on my bare feet.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

I dreamt I climbed onto the back of a Chimera,
and flew over Peloponnese.
And saw the splendor of Olympia,
and I thought I saw God sitting His throne.
I reached out to touch His hand,
and fell to the depths of Oblivion.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

It just was.
And I awoke to the reality of gravity.

ends in screams of silent tears
for those that are going
and those that have gone.

They once ran through lands
of meadows and streams
tricking teachers into believing they were deathly ill
just so they could go fishing on a sunny afternoon.

He was drafted
leaving her behind
hoping to return with more than a box
to call his own.

They got married
without a proposal
knowing it would
“just happen.”

Together they raised
a girl and a boy
and soon they had children
of their own.

I followed them
like a newborn calf
follows its mother

riding in the combine
running through fields
sitting patiently on ten-gallon buckets
waiting for the bobber to be submerged.

Tonight I, their granddaughter, scream silent tears
because
she is going and
he is gone.