MONTESSORI SCHOOL
The fingers, the minds of children,
flow over these blocks, these color tablets,
unaging stones in a stream that comes to knowing;
these cylinders, these beads without an end,
bright as the noon: the land beyond the cave;
land of integers
before my standard errors of the mean,
before my necessary sin,
before I so loved the world.
In the straitness of this room
my heart is still
in the circle of silence.