A ruddy face, a wealth of curly
Gray hair, her eyes a turquoise ocean
Advancing into me—“Learn what adaptable
Means,” she said, and I recognized
Miss Sweeney, principal,
Instructing me in a dream.
Forgotten through my calendar of years
She appeared, brandishing
Her word of the month:
Adaptable, written in bold green
Letters on posters in the halls.
Dear Miss Sweeney, you were telling me
To adapt to fear, to blindness, death,
The trinity looming over my old age.
I woke from my dream,
Adaptable, to begin the day.