multi-colored gel pens
fill the withering wicker container,
a small scuffed blackened case sits ajar
with the twisted edge
of a pair of reading glasses
daunting into the open,
surrounding the fake mahogany table
inquiring minds seek,
with scattered paper and aged text books,
precariously positioned
she sits,
fading spots of blonde hinting at age,
from algebra to earth and space
british literature and physics,
it all combines into
the mesh of the day,
what is given can not
be measured in weight or length,
only calculated with time,
the contents of which
are complex and simplistic,
love given is a seed,
that in time with care
blooms into resplendent wildflowers,
resounding the essence of
the efforts given in study,
standing out in the
crowds of life,
standing up for what
ought to be,
reveling in the creation
God hath so delicately placed
within the atmosphere of space,
when the fluroscent lights
switch to darkness and the
soft creak of the
closing door
is whispered,
gel pens are strewn
across the mahogany table,
remaining poised for the cycle
to embark again.
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bucketoweird
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