“The mantle:” a poem for my teacher and friend

The mantle

For John Cromartie

After the chariot slipped over
the horizon, he stood still,
lifting his teacher’s mantle
to his face, closing his eyes,
and resting in the song of the birds.

When he opened his eyes again,
he saw his own path
drenched in light
within the cave of his heart.

He rolled up his teacher’s mantle
and struck the face of the water,
pushing back the two walls
to take the first steps
into the new day.

He felt the weight 
of the lessons in his pocket
like seeds gathered through time. 

Great teachers tend
the flowers of joy that bloom
in the soil of grief and pain.

Great teachers help us see
that we are never alone. 

--Stuart Higginbotham