I remember days like this
Hot sun blasting through winter-grimed panes
Trees budding, grass green in the field.
We were instructed
“Look here,” at lessons scratched on greenboards
pencils shaved to stubs.
How could we look there?
Our eyes drawn by golden light
birds, butterflies, and the breath of fresh, sweet breezes.
Wriggling bums and
muscles aching to run,
bubbly voices fluttered in our chests.
In fifth grade
my desk was third from the back
in the row closest to the windows.
Were I there now,
there again, my mind would still wander
out into the sun, out into the breeze.