When she walked
into the room
she brought the old world with her,
the world of velvet and rubies
and let-down hair on shoulders, hands
like birds in a cage, eyes free
as the birds would never be.
Moments ago, there was nothing here
but a marker board, an Einstein quote
and a poor excuse of a committee
fumbling for a report, assessing .
We all looked down at our agendas
and carried on like resolute faculty
but the weight of the old world
was made of light and held us
like a painting, sort of sad, really,
Hopperesque, caught, longing for beauty -
Russian Red, perhaps, or Baltic Blue.
What we said was far from music,
unless cognitive, pedagogy, theoretical,
can be transposed to notes. Yet, some of us
were smiling like foolish love-struck
ducks out of tenured water, vowing to take
sabbatical from too much abstract thought,
making a date to listen to Vivaldi.