Paintings overflowed
Onto her skirts with each stroke of her voice.
Her eyes were graphite,
Her curls swirling, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Each of her encouragements,
Staccato like a stipple dot,
Small, but remarkably different from its neighbor.
With each step, her shadow
Drifted with Vermeer’s subtle shading,
Leaving us to wonder
If one of Raphael’s angels
Had flown into our classroom.
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