(Because for some of us poetry is clearer, and because I was inspired by the student portfolios I spent the weekend grading.)

It’s a little town.
Three hours is an epic journey
so no one leaves
because quests aren’t for everyone.
Sister and niece moved three villages over
So he’ll never see them now.
Why would she leave?
It’s a little town.
The creased valleys filled with villages
(ages ago)
collecting houses like rain in puddles
linked by fine capillary trails.
Sometimes
just on foot we go, visiting.
Why would we leave?
It’s a little town.
The Never-Leaving know each other
so the insurance agent knows
the window repairman who knows
my landlord.
So this triangle knows
that a candle under my attic window
cracked the glass one cold autumn night.
They can sit at the table for hours,
Learning to know better
The creases of smiles, the tones of loss or hope.
Why would they leave?
It’s a little town.
I weave through upturned logs on fire
heated magnets drawing people
to stretch out their fingers to the crackling
to wait for ersatz Santas
to bring them apples from a sack.
I’m just starting to know them,
standing in the doorway of home
snatching at bright notes of meaning
in this common chorus.
Belonging, I can hear its footsteps,
In another language enticing.
Why would I leave now?
It’s a little town.
I walk to supper at the neighbors,
—at the end of the day
at the end of the week
at the end of the term
at the end of the year—
weary.
I walk over old snow,
—more like the shriek of Styrofoam
than the stealth of cotton candy—
Push through the light-paned door.
Precise as cuckoos or doorbells,
The boys greet me
faces awake and eager,
just as I left them squirming and shouting
a few hours ago,
when they controlled my eyebrows’ ups and downs.
Tonight they wear ties and shirts and grins,
dressed to impress.
Sink deep into a chair.
And around the fire
we aren’t teacher and students
but guests, together in the little town.
Refugees from the cold
and the weary week,
thawing hearts and minds in a home,
not ours.
Let’s not talk about school.
That sounds perfect.
We should read poems.
Why?
Because of the fire. It’s perfect.
I only know this one poem.
About the snow. In the woods.
“Whose woods these are I think I know…”
Yeah, that one.
I love that one.
It’s a little town.
Leaving or staying,
Home for now.
Beautiful, Kristi.
Kristi: I sang Silent Night in German in your honor at church today. Quietly to myself, of course, but thought of you while doing it.
Oh, so lovely. Thanks, Kate!
Beautiful poetry, Kristi! What a way to incorporate the different events and experiences in Kandern and at BFA. Wow! So glad all 3 of you are staying on, too!
Wow, that’s beautiful! And indeed, Kandern is home for now. So glad to have you as a friend on the journey!