November 6, 1992
Peninsula School

It is more prevalent than I had thought.
I am thinking of my color and writing
with kids at a giant oval table.

Sarah’s hair tie—iridescent,
my slim-hipped daughter’s jeans,
Allie’s dangling earrings— chairs around

A table pick me up— carry me outside
to our walk again—on a magic comforter—
the tarp draped over several boxes in

A pick-up truck— delicate blossoms
on a neighbor’s bush, a scrub jay on
the Douglas fir scolding a squirrel—

A van slowed down for our procession
— silence of twenty twelve-year-olds,
hands clutched behind their backs

Eyes focused intently at the tousled head
of a kindergartener nestled in branches of
an apple tree, eyes dreamy, torso relaxed.

Under the blue t-shirt— the voice of a mother
calling out to a roving teacher, ‘Is he OK?”
Other children gathering at a painted slide—

Staring at us pilgrims, strange future glimpses
of themselves, deliberateness of steps. We made
a turn into the school yard— icing and candles on

A cupcake, in the sign for no school on Armistice
day, license plates for the whole state of California,
love in the eyes of Aleta—

The edges of the large pieces of poster board,
she carries to the classroom, the crumpled
candy wrapper on the ground left over from

Halloween— deepest of colors among red
and yellow, the sign over the math lab
says “eggplant” painted psychedelic

As we write inside, even now, our pens,
pencils spiraling from the clearest sky.