Let us have schools
  where math teachers make the poetic meanings
  of numbers come through the way Satchmo played
  his trumpet to make our mathematic imaginations emerge,

  where a passion and sense for science and how we do it
  drift in the air for all to breathe,

  where phys-ed coaches reduce us not to competitive engines
  but bring our bodies and minds together
  in duets to sing meanings yet to unfold,

  where no kid feels like a factory spitting out pre-designed stuff,
  but more like the artist engaging the waiting canvass
  the poet the blank page, the dancer the open floor,

  where minesweeper administrators clear the way for teachers
  to beget in minds of boys and lives of girls
  flashes of aha, creations of wow, insights of awe,

  where we make of ourselves primordial soup,
  generating life from all that waits within,
  stirring passions high and deep as throats of cathedral organs,

  where taxpayers and legislators deliver resources
  to schools as freely and fairly as earth engenders its air,

  where graduates give hugs and letters
  to teachers, principals and parents,
  saying thanks for showing us our compass,
  lighting our fires, modeling the stand-tall integrity
  it takes to live out what we discovered,

  where we rebirth ourselves, our neighbors and our people
  by becoming the music we hope to hear.