He maintains the truth around him,
each and every room in turn.
Every vessel of knowledge matters,
each as important as the one before,
the last, the first, and all between.
He doesn't breeze through his work.
He sweeps away the dust and pencil shavings,
but doesn't wipe away the residue of art,
that which was created so fervently,
if yet without much skill.
He has a trunk at home
filled with his own children's artwork,
and each piece he sees fills him anew.
He sometimes skins his knuckles,
making minor repairs to this and that,
but that doesn't matter. It's just a covering,
as his job doesn't cloak who he is.
/ / /
This poem was written in response to Wordle 19 at The Sunday Whirl. Thanks to Brenda, as always, for these wordles. And thanks again for choosing words from one of my poems. It's good to be missed, but it's even better to be back reading and writing again.
Obviously, being back in the classroom has influenced my subject matter.