James Taylor has a song called

Look Up From Your Life.

Simple and lovely,

the song stays with me.

In the crush of busy days,

it is easy

to keep one’s head down.

But,

look up and you may wonder…

What does today’s sky

look like at sunrise?

Why has my student been so quiet?

What book is that student reading?

What might my son need?

What writing brilliance awaits

in that student’s thoughts?

What connections can I make today

by simply

looking up from my life?

I drafted this poem today in response to Irene Latham & Charles Water’s poem “Justice” in Dictionary for a Better World. I wrote alongside my students.

For two years,

a virus kept us at arms length,

locked away.

Loved ones were available

only by phone or video.

Some struggled to survive.

As spring blooms,

we can thank

brilliant scientists.

Miracle drugs

developed in the flash of an eye,

shot hope into our arms.

We cheered health workers,

thanked grocery clerks,

appreciated  a walk outside.

We have been given 

a new chance —

a fresh start.

What legacy of good

will you leave  in

the world?

Kindness, 

generosity, 

positivity

OR 

Will you bring back

selfish, me-first vibes

that  truly separated us

in the first place?

I vote 

we stay united, brothers and sisters.

Sitting down,

the first thing I do

is turn on the thin

chrome desk lamp.

Light floods the glass top

of a lean, modern desk.

Jars and mugs

filled with all manner

of colored pens and sharpened pencils

crown the top of the desk.

Above the desk,

a large picture window

brings in orange glows of sunrise.

This is a place for writing,

for pondering,

for creating.

There is something so uplifting

about my own writing space.

Hopefully

this haven,

carved out especially for words,

is an incubator

for creativity.

.

Heading out with the dogs

for an afternoon walk,

my mind is heavy

with “to dos”,

worries, ideas.

But,

after a block

I notice a young cherry tree,

perfect pink blossoms,

flowering at eye level.

On the corner,

my pups meet a friend,

and my mouth

lifts in a smile.

Next, a tender breeze

sweeps a few items

off the list in my head.

The late day sun

slows my pace

and warms my cheeks.

As I turn up my walk,

I feel restored.

The dogs are uncertain.

They watch as cars,

then trucks

pull up to the newly built

house across the street.

Three young girls

spill out of a car

and rush up the walkway.

The girls are familiar –

like visions

from a warm summer day.

If the dogs were outside,

instead of standing

noses pressed to glass,

they would know

these are the same girls

who spoiled them

and petted them with abandon,

just two blocks away.

For the family,

the new house

is a fresh start.

But the dogs are still uncertain.

Good morning!

So glad to see you.

How are the kids?

Great.

Ryan begins his residency soon,

Abby is studying at Georgetown.

Wonderful.

How is your son?

Getting married next year.

How is your husband?

Radiation treatments are done.

Fingers are crossed.

Moments of joy

mix with moments of hope

in life shared

over the fence.

Star magnolia,

weeping cherry,

yellow daffodils,

purple hyacinths,

flowering pear —

all opening this warm spring morning.

At school,

shorts,

warm smiles,

lip gloss,

early romance —

all in bloom,

blushing, bursting colors

of spring.

Books are always the answer.

The thundering herd

galloped by —

feet pounding,

shoes squeaking,

loud huffing

emanating

from the leaders.

If this were the Serengeti,

dust would billow

behind the massive group.

Instead,

shiny linoleum greets the pack

as they turn the corner —

only to sprint back,

lap after lap.

Is it safe

to leave my room?

Or will I be trampled

by the dedicated competitors,

each charging for superiority.

Oh no!

Ms. Sanderson,

I have to go home…

right now.

You don’t understand,

I left my book

at home.

I need to know

what happens.