Invocation

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ Let the evening sunlight come

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ and cast its kindly shadows on the day,

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ stretch the chickens into eagles,

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ each blade of grass to sharp bamboo.

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ Let the golden drench of dayís unwinding

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ color common crises with nostalgia,

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ wax the moments to a fine, floating shimmer,

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ make them the icons of this place.

Ode to a Gradebook

You are the record of my life, tucked away in dusty district closets

all the endless hours of grading.

You are the rigid rows of expectation

too big to fit comfortably in my ratty daypack.

You are the hard copy of my virtual contribution,

the ìproofî of diligent production.

You are a book of lies, omissions, reveriesó

time, growth, oddly warped bell curves ringing in my conscience.

I Am

I am a Wertherís toffee

always neatly wrapped

portable

quiet

easily kept in a pocket, but

full of flavor yet untasted

richness from traditionís best; bursting

crunchy in small pieces

or smoothly, warmly savored.