Driving back from an education meeting tonight, I rounded a bend, and suddenly there was the sunset, crimson and azure and black at the edges.
The Poet wrote, Words, words, words, summing up this evening. So many adult words, so much smokescreen, and underneath all that, the schoolhouse without children, the laughing — sometimes crying — heart of the building. All those words, so precisely and precariously constructed, will lead to more words, and yet more words.
Reveal or obscure? At the end of the day, will your words lead you to the sky eternally above your head, or to your own shallow and flimsy self?
My daughter’s friend walked into this adult-packed room and bee-lined for the strawberries. This child knows what is what.