I watched her staring at me

gauging the secerts coloring my skin

without a word, ignoring yellows and blues

she slided a book towards me past the apple on her desk

Letters To A Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

"I can't help you, but you can help yourself

Find your voice, color your tale

I'm giving you the means to dream"

At the threshold of my Salvation

looking around at all the books, glancing back

What would have happened...

If she had never been my teacher?