Honey was the song,

Of a laugh, when I was wrong,

And met, then, my heart, not a scold

but something long:

 

The contours, aged, in a loving, dear face,

Stretched here, to there embrace:

Wisdom, knowledge, and grace!

 

Dearly, I sound, strings tight

and profound,

that tenderly round,

her lesson

circled

and

Crowned:

 

Royalty in music,

And dignity, in fusion,

And tone in profusion,

of a telling 

confusion!

 

Little, did I learn,

And neglected, in turn,

Yet still not a burn,

nor did her eye, confirm:

 

That dread be my lot,

Or correction, gentle, unsought

Instead, a reel, to be caught

my fish fluttering, and fraught

with all that I thought, 

would improve me not!

 

Foolish, so young!

Weren’t we all, at times rung,

before the bell 

and the Teacher, 

and heads, figuratively

Hung!

 

But that’s just the magic,

In an age, intransigent,

when much, we ranted,

about a hell, imagined!

 

Though little, we knew

It was paradise 

 

through, 

and through;

 

such laughter and mischief,

we thought not, a unique incident

 

until older we grew

with no choice, but sinew

since adult fangs rue

days innocent, untrue!

 

Now, wishing, could we laugh

Like we did, but now in half

Our hearts, as broken calves

limp to mothers, 

of perpetual 

Fact!

 

Long gone, are the 

contours,

Aged.

In a loving, dear face.

 

For not eternal, were those days,

neither what appeared, a goddess,

Unphased.

 

Nay, she was mortal,

But never her lesson.

Thank you, my Teachers,

 

For all 

your 

 

Impression.

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “The Teacher”, 05-02-25

​

© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith