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.