School Under The Pines

Underneath the spring blossoms we ran;

Petals crowning our little heads as we raced each other before lessons began;

The borough stretching out, rice-fields and many a barn;

Our hall of learning at the edge of the azure tarn.

Orphaned we were;

Waited for us at the door of the temple grounds; he did... Grey-haired and smiling... Beloved parent and Sir;

A small room it was, a corner of the old, old shrine;

But tranquil, hallowed under the swaying shades of the pine.

Followed his every movement, glued were our eyes;

His fine calligraphy, penmanship, demeanour... Oh, how we longed to be like him... Wise;

Soothing, calming, a mellifluous tone;

He sheltered us like his very own;

Cheeks ink-smeared, we fell asleep on the porch;

A happy father with fifteen children, he carried us into the dim interior, away from the scorch.

Upon the fluttering, open pages, a small flower or two drifted from the outside;

Our homing instincts to inhale erudition's fragrance never died;

We're like the tiny birds that hopped on his sill;

Always trying to row towards the rim of the rill.

"Thank you," Said he;

"I was never your teacher, you fledglings taught me;

What is compassion? What is fatherhood?

How to do good?

My daughters, sons; my precious ones; you were the beacons, the newly-born stars;

Completed my empty soul as we traipsed through the scarlet eve, the twilight hours."

I am but seven;

My steps and words are uneven;

Laughing, I pick up white florets from a blooming bed;

Making a corona to place it on his head.

"My sweet child, grow wings and fly;

Over the dales and gullies... Up, high;

Scoop diamonds of accomplishment from the skies;

Show them to me before we utter our goodbyes."

"#ThankyouTeacher"