After School

The bell, no longer a morning thrush, Awakes no dreams of chalky dust. The gates stand open, overgrown, Where seeds of future now are sown. The path, once paved with rigid lines, Dissolves in fields of tangled vines. No map directs, no teacher guides, Just compass points and rising tides. The oak of knowledge, tall and vast, Has dropped its acorns, holding fast. Each tiny seed, a life anew, Must break the earth, and reach the blue. The winds of change, a restless breeze, Whisper secrets through the trees. Find your own sunlight, build your nest, And trust the wildness in your breast.