It is a windy afternoon. Sylvan's class of poets sit in a group. There is a fire in the fireplace. I lie on the red rug, listening. The students who want to be poets are eager and fresh, like washed apples. Sylvan and I are the only ones with gray, grizzled hair.
"They know so little about life," Sylvan whispers to me as he puts out plates of cookies and seltzer bottles.
"Maybe they just don't know what they know," I say, making Sylvan smile.
"They know so little about life," Sylvan whispers to me as he puts out plates of cookies and seltzer bottles.
"Maybe they just don't know what they know," I say, making Sylvan smile.
The Poet's Dog, P24
Patricia MacLachlan
ISBN 978-0-06-229262-9
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