In classrooms where the red pen waits to strike,
we build our well-planned scaffolds,
neat, word by word— but what if scaffolds are the bird cage,
the wire between closure and space?

The child who writes of spaceships and dragons breathing
purple smoke gets called for mixing metaphors.

We say revise but mean conform.

The wild voice singing morning tunes learns to whisper.
Strange—how helping hands can cage the life of
living language, making it lie.

 

6/7/2025