It used to be a teacher’s

Time for other work

Some went to school, some painted

Houses, some worked in greenhouse


Some never stopped with learners

In the classroom

Some took the learning outside


Now with age and the inexorable slowing


New options must emerge

I sit and write and share

A little of what emerges from the work,

A pinhole in a tube


Is this real, too

Only creation without a



Or if I should sit still for the season,

Would that count as substance

Let alone abundance in

The universe

Or would it be

Simply in between the numbers

On the line



The calculations that matter

Only come in the fall


C L Couch