At my last job, my classroom ceiling caved in.
One leak became another, became fallen tiles
and tarps. I became a windowless room.
I left, came to Seabury. I hoped leaving was right.
If trees are signs, I had three. My classroom
came with a tree that lives in a window nook.
During the school year, so do I. When I become
my job, the tree is clarity. The tree is a cure.
In April, a haiku tree in the commons.
103 construction paper leaves, tiny poems
dressing bare outstretched branches.
Beautiful ornaments, each a whispered secret.
And in December, a Christmas tree, the seniors
and Dr. Schawang venturing into the wild
and returning with the tallest possible evergreen.
Everyone drinks hot chocolate and decorates—
it’s more cheer than I’ve had in ten years,
when our dog died at Christmas, and my husband
and I gave up celebrating. I came to Seabury,
restored. To be among trees. To carry a forest inside.
