8/30: Fourth Grade on a Friday

by cabbythepoet

It’s Fourth grade on a Friday.
Walking to my class, I stop
at the sight before me:
two birds chase each other
like a soft rhyme, their wings
seizing the same air running
through my thick black as new moon hair,
the same April air that kissed my face
when I finally decided to misplace
the sour flowers planted in the
deep soil of my unnamed hurt.
Walking to my class, I stop
at the sight before me:
Two boys chase a squirrel
The squirrel chases the world
Both move with no thought,
no belief in exhaustion,
no need to falter.
What you want will always run
Against what you have.

Can this moment last?

The other day, a black butterfly
cuts across the backdrop of green
in my backyard, the pink flowers,
the white crane, the bluest jay,
the wild worthwhile smile of the sun
is the sum of all I’ve lost and gained.

It’s Fourth Grade on a Friday.
I tell Jack in class,
If you turn anywhere in the dictionary,
you can find a new word with old meaning,
meaning,
you story is unfinished,
meaning,
your story is yours,
meaning,
life is alive in the light of a word.
He calls out to me, shows me
the word he chose out of the rows
of definitions, the possibility of
knowing something new,
redoing the unknown,
until known,
and
I know nothing
other than nothing is more
important than the moment
where, he says,
Look, look what I found.

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