I was in High School, unusual for me <br />And there was a teacher who, <br />When the first feelings of spring went up for bid, <br />Allowed us to go outside, where, under a tree <br />We listened to her unassuming classroom voice, <br />Take form of angel's wings <br /> <br />I could feel tiny needles of new, cleaner sun <br />Atop my arms and legs <br />And my brow was cool, held by gentle breeze <br />I lie there under that poet tree knowing <br />That if I never moved, I was happy <br />And I'd always remember her <br /> <br />As I succumbed to my dream-like state, <br />Her voice sparkled a million tiny bubbles <br />Like champagne for a little boy's soul, <br />She seduced me with her up-close voice <br />She read aloud from The Wind In The Willows <br />Knowing well we were all just kids <br /> <br />She wasn't a poet, so she seemed, but a teacher <br />I don't know where she is today <br />I ride high, though, on waves of cherish <br />Brought on by reddening spring <br />I wonder, does she remember that tree <br />And the student with the perfect grade?<br /><br />Keith Parsons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/underneath-the-poet-tree/
