All the papers praised by your pen are enshrined.
All the music and poetry that touched me whispers,
teacher.
Teacher, I'm no longer so young;
did you wait for me?
Teacher, did you wait for me,
or did you get older too?
I hurried, quick as I could,
to catch up.
Now, we meet again as colleagues.
What to say? How to talk?
Did you marry?
Did you have a little girl?
Pretty please, say no.
Don't make me be jealous
for my little girl self,
little girl pupil,
who loved you,
loved you, you, the gatekeeper
of all that is the art I love.
Teaching cannot rattle my knees
as much as greeting you again
while my ears ring childhood chants,
do overs, do overs...
scaredycat, scaredycat...
do overs, do overs...
You might not remember one little girl,
among all the faces that flowed by your desk,
one little girl who loved you.
Please excuse me, teacher,
if I am disappointed,
or too eager,
or if my eyes forget how to listen.
My little girl memories hear shining armor,
but my woman vision is wise to the tarnish.