I will matriculate in a school of material teachers
that I might know the polysaccharide love of a tree,
or the solid mineral experience of iron.
If I could rest in the presence of a rock
that has done nothing in a thousand years
but sit in utter satisfaction on the same spot.
If I could feel the strength of a woodpecker’s neck
as she stabs the buggy bark,
or mimic the habits of a wren after its brief rehearsal of heaven.
If I could lie still like a placemat and feel a porcelain plate cooling,
or live like bread in the dangerous proximity of knives without fear.
If I could get close to the heart of things,
become a student of light for a week
or midnight for a month
or a seed for a winter as it waits,
or the soil of a garden for a decade.
I seek teachers who have never doubted,
never second-guessed themselves,
never grumbled over disappointments.
To study in a school beyond the ego-web
my spider-mind weaves to trap the world
would be a pleasure.