Evening in my room

It's evening in my room
too
the light is of evening, and evening's lingering tale
of things unsaid, people unmet....

This room up on the roof, where the sky comes in at the door's magic rectangle,
where I wake to the keening of birds and the bursts of trees in bloom, where at each window, there beckon tantalizing lights and shades, this room that you cannot see is where I sit and correct all your papers and plan your lessons, and sometimes dread the next class approaching all too soon.

This afternoon I went to visit my husband's teacher, who, four days ago, had his brain visited briefly, oh so fleetingly, by a stroke...For three days he staggered a bit when he stood up and walked, he forgot words and the connections made with memories, but then the touch passed and he's not slurring anymore, he's not staggering. He even made coffee for me, filling - while my heart felt as if I were watching leaves falling in clouds from humbled trees - a heavy pan with water, the filter with coffee powder, waiting beside the water till it boiled, pouring it into the filter, then into the shiny new flask( he never needed one till now) then waiting till the coffee sank a bit then refilling it then watching the milk till it boiled, then mixing the coffee in a glass and passing me biscuits.

Some things we forget how much they can mean. I came out to a bright hot evening, a blue sky without promises, roads screeching with traffic. In my heart the leaves are carpet thick, and I am too busy to linger there.