Across the pencils pointed skyward
like so many word-wielding swords
past the gray and steel of
overflowing desks filled with
orphaned papers stashed, crumpled askew
over the carpet-bland, sturdy, useable
home to small and hopeful feet
to the doorway–closed.
Through it comes
life and noise and limbs,
any moment now–
eager hearts, chattering faces,
souls on their sleeves–
seven year old movers and shakers.
God, help me see through to their hearts.
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