Their not young eyes look over stone glasses, to whom does their nose point? 

Not a smile to be found, not even lingering leaving any room for doubt. 

Their hearts are cold and their eyes are dead, fingers twisted, shifting their dried skin.

Who else could be the witch or troll of lore besides they who take delight in 

stabbing our hopes and dreams of a sunny day. Our thoughts that today will be 

better. Instead those witches make us want to crawl back into the safety of the womb,

fester in the chemicals of complacency. 

I know a teacher, I know a mentor, I know a guide. I know all three. 

I watch a child push a swing alone and wonder 'Will he be my sons teacher? Will

he show him how to make friends?' I watch a child cry over a scrapped knee and wonder

'is this who my teacher was when she was younger? She couldn't have been me!' 

I watch a child tell another why sticks and stones are not bad, but they shouldn't be

thrown, 'Is this who my teacher was?' I watch a child run out of sight, onto a path

that leads far into the trees, they come out covered in mud, holding a frog and

smiling. 'Is this my teacher?' 

Because I will never be less absorbed with my own angst, my own profitable despair,

I wish to say this to any teacher who pushed themselves to be better than to treat

life as a contest. To any teacher who has reminded me that teachers are not born

old and grey, they must be students too. To any teacher who has not pushed

knowledge onto me, but showed me why it's as cool as rolling in the mud

and finding a frog.

 

Thank you for listening.

 

Thank you for being you.