I wrote this poem as an English teacher at Freeman Academy. The freshman that year are now juniors in college.
Out my window, rain beats the cottonwood tree from above.
It bows – but it always bows now – and so while it looks as if it is taking a beating,
it is rather enduring as it has for years upon end.
Perhaps when it was young, like my students,
it bowed under the weight of rain, the strength of wind.
Perhaps the year it was planted,
a grandmother of one of my freshmen was a freshmen herself,
was supple and springing and of course,
And perhaps that grandmother, now bent and bowing is beat on by the rain of life,
but unaffected, strong and resolute.
Perhaps my freshman can watch her and learn to be strong and resolute themselves.