I am like a fly viewing my classroom
with a compound eye. I see all, I hear all,
in fourteen separate colored lenses –
the SOL, the common formative assessment,
the adolescent perspective novel, the income bracket,
the critical thinking taxonomy, the art of a good book,
or even the donut I was eating minutes before.
All flurries inside my brain and I hear a blizzard.
Yet I am to shovel snow, to craft an ice sculpture,
to conduct a symphony out of hormones and chaos.
Or I am like the canary in the goldmine,
singing gently down horrible corridors
past cauldrons and caverns and cold seismic rivers
leading a line of trembling middle schoolers
in search of gold. It is all around,
but invisible to the senses –
it surrounds and beckons with its ring.
If only lights to dig and see.
I sing further down “too loo too lee” –
here is gold, here it could be
just swing away and we will see,
or look inside for the mystery.
Gold does not grow in pitch black caves
but sublte grows more naturally,
nor will you find it in the waves,
nor in the forest, nor in the tree
the true search for gold,
the gold that stays,
is inside you and inside me.