The End

 

When I was One,
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three,
I was hardly me.

When I was Four,
I was not much more.

When I was Five,
I was just alive.

But now I am six,
I'm as clever as clever

So I think I'll be six now
Forever and ever.

—A.A. Milne

(Video of our granddaughter and her K class reciting this poem).

Dear Peace

 

You are one of the few things left

that cannot be purchased, but

must instead be cultivated and

shaped over time, like clay aching

for the touch and turn of human hands.

You struggle up like a wildflower

in the same untamed patch of ground,

needing both the light and shadow

of the understory to keep rising up

year after year. You are the single

untrammeled Spring Beauty I saw

today, growing from a clump of moss,

white and pink-veined petals open

only slightly, like a mouth searching

for the right words to speak or sing.

—James Crews

Open Anyway

 

When I have fears that what I share

will never touch this hurting world,

I turn to the wild violets growing again

from clumps of moss on the forest floor,

how they unfurl a few limp purple

petals that seem no match for spring

winds and rain, but still somehow trust

that mining bees and fritillaries will

find them and feed—the flowers open

anyway. I still remember standing in front

of that classroom full of expectant faces

in third grade for show and tell, gripping

the thin notebook page on which I’d

written my first poem. The words swirled

and swam until I closed my eyes and

recited them by heart. It was all I had

to give, and not nearly enough, I thought.

Applause thundered through the room.

—James Crews