Why We Can’t Have Class Outside
The sky is an amazing shade
of deep lighted blue,
a translucent liquid ether
that reminds me
of falling back into clear
July spring waters
or digging my toes
in hot Zihuatanejo sand,
back when we could fool ourselves
into thinking
that moment of family happiness
could last forever,
that love would be
unconditional,
and that patience and childish
obedience
would one day
be rewarded,
and the clouds
against the sky
stand out in crisp,
delicious puffs,
then a few gauzy smears,
moving across that
blue serenity
in ethereal herds,
an infinitesimal dance
that pulls our eyes up, up,
into the sun’s
dizzy brilliance,
so that,
under our skins,
we begin to feel some of that
impossible lift,
as if
with the mild Spring air
and tossing breeze
we too have become
a bit
unhinged,
as if time might stop
and run
backward,
as if the only thing
we need to know
is the soft sigh
of that
scented wind
past the church steeple,
through the
twiggy forsythia
against Boyle Hall
and the
suddenly budding
magnolia trees.
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