I’m too busy shaking my defiant ass
and flying my wildflower feet to find any time to pack my bags.

The old guard hates my new moves.

I dance in places where change is just talk,
-where scared silent is mistaken for peace,
-where stillness is mistaken for power.

The fear mongers keeps telling me
that I “should move if I don’t like it here.”

But I don’t. I can’t leave yet.

I dance at town hall meetings,
~ where an out of tune jukebox spits circular arguments and pounding fist.

I dance on capitol steps,
-where the statues don’t blink,
-where the air smells like old speeches,
-where the legislature scrambles for soundbites,
but never for the suffering of the people.

I dance in the corner of the old cowboy bar,

- where country songs drown in whiskey,
- where men tip their hats but never their hearts,
- where the jukebox knows every goodbye

but no one speaks about the wounds we all carry.

A teacher’s heart is a blazing lighthouse,

and we need every beam of light we can get.

Because if we treat teaching like it’s nothing more than a vacancy to be filled,

we won’t get steady hands or guiding voices—

we’ll get faint echoes,

too quiet to scare off the wolves,

too dim to show the way through the dark.