Mrs. Davison's Loop

In a box of books, dusty, old and small,

I found the copy, spine about to fall.

'A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,' on the page,

her looping script, defiant of its age.

Mrs. Davison, my English teacher, neat,

her quiet voice, no bitter, loud defeat.

'Read this closely,' she had gently wrote,

'It has more truth than you think,' the note.

Her elegant curve, a word that holds me fast,

a silent lesson, meant for me to last.

She saw a thing in me, I couldn't see,

a kind of knowing, just for you and me.

And still she speaks, from yellowed paper now,

a quiet truth, a gentle, lasting vow.