A student that didn’t study…

I hated school and loved it
with the best reasons I could imagine
when I was so young,
it was everything I wanted but came
with such a painful price
of learning by unlearning, hearing
what I didn’t know to hear,
my imagination of a world constantly
spinning had to be stopped
to gain what could not be stilled,
all measured by letters and
discouraging questions trying to diagnose
what might be missing
as I failed to live up to my potential
which as they described it
was never much to aspire to,
year after year until
I walked away because I wasn’t ready
to stop the world’s whirl
and every day I missed what I lost,
every moment counted as wasted,
until the undoing of my undoing
began to take shape
and the only thing I had missed
was what I had missed.

 

What is to be found in books…

In Books

On a bright, fresh Saturday morning
an old man walked from
the library with a large book of some subject
open before him, reading closely
it seems, stepping carefully along the walk
so much like every one of my children,
fascinated and eager for the stacks,
little fingers tracing the spines of
everything they reach, starting book
after book, story after story, then
begging to know how many
they were allowed to borrow, how many
worlds could be opened in their hands,
emerging from their libraries clutching tomes
with one open before each, reading closely,
never stumbling with a peripheral view
that just knew the way even while
occupied with a realm becoming theirs,
toward home and each
would migrate to a spot predetermined
to finish each too quickly, too passionately,
even our one who could never sit still
would perch unmoved for hours
and still does, having to be beckoned
back to now for mundane things
like food and sleep, and this is how I
learned to read, not in letters and words
and sentences, but in lives and worlds and
in books that were borrowed.