|by Emily Carr|
A thing is not what it seems, sometimes, anyway. Same with a person or a kid who is a person, although it is not so much subject matter or convergence of this poem and my morning brain rattle as the fact that I felt an urge to protect after reading Naomi Shihab Nye's "Rain."
A teacher asked Paul what he would remember from third grade, and he sat a long time before writing "this year somebody tutched me on the sholder" and turned his paper in. Later she showed it to me as an example of her wasted life. The words he wrote were large as houses in a landscape. He wanted to go inside them and live, he could fill in the windows of "o" and "d" and be safe while outside birds building nests in drainpipes knew nothing of the coming rain.