It is all so close to nothing this morning, 
the long hours of teaching, the coming home 

to plant in thunder and heat lightening 
until the sky breaks open and I’m soaked. 

Inside, I bathe, dry off, then go back 
to grading essays for the thirtieth year in a row. 

I taught all July, students from Sudan,  
Germany, Palestine, Syria, Korea, the UK.  

I am at home among my students. Among 
the semesters that pass like a nomad’s tents,  

folded and unfolded, another mile  
walking the dog, another poem. 

My own history stays with me, its borders  
increasing, the population of days larger,  

each minute a seedling I lift gently  
from the plastic flat, brushing soil  

from the roots, whispering grow, 
planting tendrils into new ground.