The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Jeanine Stevens ONE ROOM SCHOOL HOUSE IN FONDULAC for my Mother Uncle Jon warms bricks for our feet. The horse snorts white clouds in icy air. We cross the river in frozen dark. We pull blankets over our shoulders.In the schoolroom, I fill a large pan with water, place it on the iron woodstoveheat lunches in glass jars— leftovers: soup, stew, bacon chunks and bread.Older students work on their own, today—geography. Chile is a red slash on the map (we are told "pronounce it She-lay") a bright spot lighting up homespun and denim.By afternoon, windows steam. Younger children practice cursives: up, down, down, down—thick pencils scratch, boots tap and scrape the raspy floor. Uncle Jon warms bricks for the ride home. On our laps, quilt squares hold pale sun. In the dusk, the river is gray and bleak and the horse must be fed before dark. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |