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Before they arrived, I peered through a window and was struck by the silhouette
of a fine, old red maple. Branches stood exposed by the December attitudes, and I
wondered why I felt such an attraction to a cycling reminder of mortality, the fractal
branching like scythes in the evening glow.
I was unburdened of my reminiscence
when the first student arrived.
Contemplative, warm and given to insight reserved yet ripened once voiced, there were
untold stories hidden behind his smile, a deceptive simplicity over an umber mystery.
Following was one not inclined to lift his gaze from the floor when sculpting
his views, and not easily beaten into awe by the romanticizing of self or suffering.
Each took a seat, and we
chatted over Dick and Asimov.
I shifted my balance with the arrival of the kestrel, attentive and willing to join
the hunt, but with bright eyes demanding absolute control and resolution of the falconer.
I inwardly chuckled and allowed
the mirth to translate to a welcome as
the undaunted Titania swung into her seat, always a lender of openness and steady
perception, at her neck a leafless tree of silver, reminding me of an unanswered reverie.
This form from nature held sway
beyond my own entangled
thoughts, but how did the pulsing green of fresh spring growth
not take precedence in my winter-woeful mind?
Nevermind. The sparkle of a gem could not be subsumed by such thinking as he rolled
into the room, and the facets of his inquiry were designed to cut through glass-set walls.
Our group was nearly complete.
Yet one pup was astray.
When the musician finally arrived, he brought pumice to our bath of philosophies, using
the improvising solo to get him through where a time spent with the literature would not do.
So a complete unit, we were unlike any group I had taught in a decade of Socratic
occupation. As we folded the themes of post-modern isolation against Kerouac's Mexico,
Lee's assimilation, Oliver's serpent, and Alexie's glass over heart, I saw a structure
laid bare before me.
My six pupils had been dropping their leaves for months as if I stood in a windy autumn
forest, and on this final day of exploration, I saw an impression of the red maple
cast over the classroom. In striking perception I was able to see how each student
branched from the roots of my tutelage.
Scant further inspection revealed upon each of them a swelling
red bud, the storage of the potential I had siphoned
from the earth beneath us, buds destined to leaf out in the fresh
year and yield fruit to the land about them.
And it was with this vision that I realized it was not death
in the architecture of the winter tree, but a renewal in the progress of creation.
So now when I look upon the bare crown of a red maple,
I won't see the lack of leaves but the hope of me.
of a fine, old red maple. Branches stood exposed by the December attitudes, and I
wondered why I felt such an attraction to a cycling reminder of mortality, the fractal
branching like scythes in the evening glow.
I was unburdened of my reminiscence
when the first student arrived.
Contemplative, warm and given to insight reserved yet ripened once voiced, there were
untold stories hidden behind his smile, a deceptive simplicity over an umber mystery.
Following was one not inclined to lift his gaze from the floor when sculpting
his views, and not easily beaten into awe by the romanticizing of self or suffering.
Each took a seat, and we
chatted over Dick and Asimov.
I shifted my balance with the arrival of the kestrel, attentive and willing to join
the hunt, but with bright eyes demanding absolute control and resolution of the falconer.
I inwardly chuckled and allowed
the mirth to translate to a welcome as
the undaunted Titania swung into her seat, always a lender of openness and steady
perception, at her neck a leafless tree of silver, reminding me of an unanswered reverie.
This form from nature held sway
beyond my own entangled
thoughts, but how did the pulsing green of fresh spring growth
not take precedence in my winter-woeful mind?
Nevermind. The sparkle of a gem could not be subsumed by such thinking as he rolled
into the room, and the facets of his inquiry were designed to cut through glass-set walls.
Our group was nearly complete.
Yet one pup was astray.
When the musician finally arrived, he brought pumice to our bath of philosophies, using
the improvising solo to get him through where a time spent with the literature would not do.
So a complete unit, we were unlike any group I had taught in a decade of Socratic
occupation. As we folded the themes of post-modern isolation against Kerouac's Mexico,
Lee's assimilation, Oliver's serpent, and Alexie's glass over heart, I saw a structure
laid bare before me.
My six pupils had been dropping their leaves for months as if I stood in a windy autumn
forest, and on this final day of exploration, I saw an impression of the red maple
cast over the classroom. In striking perception I was able to see how each student
branched from the roots of my tutelage.
Scant further inspection revealed upon each of them a swelling
red bud, the storage of the potential I had siphoned
from the earth beneath us, buds destined to leaf out in the fresh
year and yield fruit to the land about them.
And it was with this vision that I realized it was not death
in the architecture of the winter tree, but a renewal in the progress of creation.
So now when I look upon the bare crown of a red maple,
I won't see the lack of leaves but the hope of me.
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