Their energy becomes my own.
They arrive, tumbling in, all laughter and familiar and bulging backpacks.
They don’t acknowledge me, but it doesn’t sting. They are not rude. Just young.
Pulling in their chaos, they let me focus them, like a great funnel,
or a magnifying glass in the sun.
They’ll write today. They’ll shiver and whisper and try to sneak off before it’s over,
but first, they’ll trust me and they’ll write.
Seeing their bowed heads
over their papers
as the river barely ripples
and the birds just wake up,
I am awakened,
pulsing with my love for them, for all that they do now, and all that’s still to come.