Standing before me after class
Says his thoughts go off in wild directions
When he tries to explain his way through one of my questions.
He hasn't the skill -- and half-doubts the possibility of it -- to tie
Much of a knot
Or to weave the colored strands into coherence.
In his eyes I see the facade of frustration about this.
Under that: wonderment,
And the birthing of a brand new baby hope.
We old professors who have midwifed a thousand such
Can still gasp.