Jim. He had a funny grin. A looped light he shone - sickle slice, moonlike, long of chin - whenever struck by surpassing delight. Which was often. We found we wanted in on it, that freely felt, freely avowed (what else to call it?) joy. And so we came with pencils poised, but first he read aloud: of stolen plums, of wheelbarrows and rain, of host and guest who spoke no word, of white chrysanthemum. The wonder was when time arrived for fledgling flight - for us to write - we weren't afraid, though green, to start the climb. Once I tried thanking him. He'd only say, 'Shucks, all I did was get out of the way.' Note:I was asked to write a sonnet paying tribute to a teacher. What a delightful assignment. In it, I make reference to three poems (written by a total of two authors) he really did read aloud. I'll reveal titles and authors on October 1 - in the meantime, it can be a guessing game.