the scholar

I am here, learning.

I learn by watching faces,
by waiting in doctors offices,
by tipping the boiling pot too fast, too carelessly;
by hanging heavy cold laundry in the whipping wind.

I go on learning.
I make my letters too loopy one time, too slanted another.
My arm smears the undry ink. The paper slices my tender finger.
I shake the pen to unstop the flow before bowing my head again to the page.

I lurch forward in wisdom
when promises are broken
and when my favorite sweater gets thrown in the dryer
when someone forgets to be kind
when gardens are neglected
when flowers blossom anyway.

I am taught by rote
by example
by deeds done and undone
measure by measure, pressed down and running over.

The scholar bends to his task
and the task bends over the distant hill.

Non scholae sed vitae discimus.