Tuesday is the yellow-green of a cat's eyes (with apologies to my lawyer friends)

Each time I go into a new classroom and ask the kids to warm up their poetry minds by writing down what they think is the color of Tuesday, the smell of anger, the texture of sunlight, there are always those that smirk and squirm. They stare back at me with confusion, pity, contempt, or all of the above, exchange incredulous glances. If they are fortunate enough, they have a spokesperson: “What?! That's nuts!”

“Write it down,” is always my reply. “'This assignment is nuts.' I want to see it on the paper.”

I cannot help the Future Lawyers of America. They will have to fend for themselves in that murky sea of logic they've chosen to swim. They are not why I'm here.

I am here for the girl in the fourth seat back, second row from the windows, that sits up straighter and catches my eye with her wide ones. She nods, ever so slightly. She has been waiting, waiting through grammar lessons, through book reports, through essay assignments, and oral presentations, and now she has it: permission. And so she begins, forgetting this once to dot her i's with little hearts, which really just began out of boredom, that silent killer. She writes and she writes and she writes. The hour speeds by and the prompts change, but she does not lift her pen. When class is dismissed, I watch her go. Her shadow is made of stardust.