Chapter 9: Craft Knowledge and the Education of Teachers

I knew a teacher once With words as soft As moths on summer screens: Brittle—bright—and Cruel was not his style. As others barked, His whispers touched the dark Inside your soul And seemed to echo there. The way was sure. He always took the time: Refused the rush Of world reports for poems— And pushed aside The weight of dusty tomes To scratch his nose And passed around the mints. He seemed alive. You couldn't put him on. He'd take a book And make it yours and his In magic ways That made your breath come quick. His wink was slight. The eyes were bright and clear, A hush of blues. You'd watch the pause of smile, A patient blink That let the question hang. We would like to acknowledge the helpful insights and critique given by our colleagues