Our Whispering Teachers


They peel off from the passing West Wind, now fragments of the gust, now zephyrs easing through the cracks in my doors and windows. Wafting in single-file down my hallway, they lay their warm fingers on my slumbered mind, words small and perfectly formed with sentence laid upon sentence in exquisite order.


I covert my deeply sleep but the first layer of story, the first sentence, gently asks for its brothers to join. It asks that I creep from my slumber time, from my warm bed, from my breathing woman, and quietly set each layer, each sentence, to the virgin page.

I lie in repose, denying their softly tap tap in my mind, these whispering teachers who know I’ll soon rise and give them whispering voices.