Poem #1 (Light on math, heavy on spring reflection)
The spring season of teaching defies all measures of time.
Outside our window, past the bird feeder, we 23 watch the pear tree.
(Pear trees are wretched creatures, so I’ve learned.
Dusty rose-colored petals stain the sidewalks.
And short-lived trees, hardly worth the bother, really?)
But I did not know that then.
To me, to all of us on our walk, they were magical.
Weeks ago, nothing. “Bone branches,” said the five year old.
carpeting the underneath. An uncountable collection.
I resist the urge to shove my pockets full of them
in a desperate moment to preserve the short moment of smeared petal perfection.
Each petal swept away.
replaced by green buds.