“At the touch of a lover, all become poets”
Read at the top of his tablet in chalk
That chalk-slate he’d bring (so long as proper)
Sashed underarm; scattering dust as he’d walk
Of every ageless ancient axiomatic proverbial adage,
Euphrates gleaned from class like grain,
The words on his slate were a key
A mental dimension defogged; a new axis and plane.
“Like usual, in the Gardens after class,” she’d told him
Euphrates ruefully willed her late
But only to preserve his teacher’s words,
May they remain when they’re cleared from the slate.
He was deceptively stoic when she kissed him hello,
His gracefulness concealed his glee
“I found a new way to love you, Sophia!
To love with body, heart and mind; to love completely!”
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