woke this morning to the
swish swish swish
tiny grains of snow
tapping at the window
after shower
and cereal
and lunchbox
and boots
i shovel my way
down the path to the car
slip and slide
all the way to school
and spend what turn out to be
my only quiet moments of the day
making copies
first class of
haiku
and odes
and meter
and “what word would fit here”
and “how long should it be”
an auditorium of nine hundred
clapping on the two and four
raucous praise and bass guitar
a student wants to talk
about “life”
during free hour
and who am i to silence
“how do i choose”
and “what do i major in”
and “what should i do”
and though i may protest
that my introvert self is grumpy
it turns out
i’m a sucker for giving advice
and we talk all hour
lunch meeting means
talking with my mouth full
another class
and then the loudest group of all
thespians practicing
voices
and speeches
and motions
and VOLUME
dinner for two
at a blessedly quiet establishment
except the waiter is in training
and keeps bothering us
more song
this time fifty trained voices
reading music
ignoring rests
heaving snow again
this morning’s four inches of sugar
that ran like sand
have become tonight’s six of the moldable stuff
more suited for castles
untie boots
unzip coat
unbutton pants
unclasp bra
massage the indents
the elastic and wire make
slip into cotton and fleece
drink water
wash face
brush teeth
and then
silence
beholden to no one
well
except my own guilt
for neglecting
this duty
so now
just the quiet hiss
and breath of the furnace
and creak of the chair
and tapping of keys
i sit down to write a poem
Abby Zwart (’13) teaches high school English in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She spends her free time making lists of books she should read, cooking, and managing the post calvin.
