The school year
is an engine—
the yellow bus a symbol
of its sights and sounds.
The kids have boarded—
the bus drives on.
The coming fall, the holidays
are part of it.
The pressures and reprieves
the colors like the autumn leaves
the children's voices
in the classrooms and the halls—
they all are part
and roll on with the tires.
The school year
is an engine.
From his kitchen
he can hear its sounds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
As a teacher, I can relate to this! A teacher's imagination will be always colored with the memories of the students school campus and everything connected with it!
hi, valsa! yes, and with me i wonder if i'll ever not think like a student and teacher; it's how i think of a year and why i look forward to weekends, holidays, and vacations. thank you for reading and commenting. -glen