By Allison Berryhill
I wanted for them each to find a muse
And push like Sisyphus against a thought--
To hear an inner voice and set it loose
And touch the place where soul with sound is wrought.
To give them tools to carve onto the page
The exquisite release of hidden self,
To gift them ways to transform joy and rage
To poem, essay, book upon a shelf.
But hour six too often slid away
With chattered scattered shot and little more
And what I’d hoped for them to learn each day--
Abandoned, crumpled drafts upon the floor.
Ah, did they learn the lesson of the pen?
Revise, revise, and let me try again.
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