Standing by the nature table in your classroom,
Ruckled landscapes of gingham,
Jars of startled lemon trumpets,
Scent of binka and little accidents,
("Who's made a naughty smell?")
Squeak and slough of wax crayon,
Conkers in autumn
Pussy willow in spring.
Stroking fragility,
Sniffing the furry,
Twirling my tongue
One snowy playtime
To taste the fluster and fizz
Falling from forever.
That fossil hiding in the wall,
Ripples of secret aeons
Between the Infants' and Juniors'!
Coaxed by your compendium of buds and birthing
My eyes, my heart stretched to take it all in,
The wonder of this world,
In music and motion.
We'd made it to the Moon,
Lived a whole decade in our skins
Made collages of how we might dress
In that thing called future,
Rubber-glueing chain mail of foil and button
On sugar paper, chubby fingers
Skipping in glitter,
Imagining.
We could never have dreamed,
We babes of the boom,
Your weekday words
Whispering down all our tomorrows,
Rhythmic reminders
You are still somehow
Incurved nurture round our eggshell childhoods,
Tender to tease us out of ourselves,
Believing in us
Till we could
Believe in ourselves.
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