a wrinkle in time

she reads
to the children
in a soft gentle
voice, a mother's
voice that almost
puts them to sleep,
with their heads on
their folded arms,
upon the hard
desks with the books
tucked away,
but the story
is too good
for them to doze
off, too well written.
the lights are down
and the windows
are open just enough
to let april in.
quietly, so that
they will listen,
she reads and reads,
never looking up
from the book,
the dog eared pages
that she turns with
a ringless hand. she
imagines her own child
one day. she dreams of
being in love, but
she keeps reading, and
she knows that these
moments will not be
forgotten by these
children, and especially
not by me.