My palms were hot and sweaty, heart beating fast and hard in my chest, face burning, sick to my stomach, regretting every word I’d written. How could I have misunderstood. It was nothing like any of the lines that Mr Erasmus was reading. The other poems were fun, and feisty. Nazeem, the laserbeam, Alice who lived in a palace, Frank who went to the bank. I hoped somehow the page with my poem would get stuck to the back of someone else’s and be missed. As he finished reading each poem he placed it face down on the table. It seemed like an eternity, anticipating with dread that each poem he was about to read might be mine, and the embarrassment of it. I almost thought that my wish had come true. Then as he looked at the last paper in his hand, he paused a minute. Looked up and took two breaths. In words I should remember vividly, he proclaimed that he’d saved this one for last because this was the work of a future poet. That it was beautiful and filled with emotion and artistry and imagination. And then he read it. It was my poem about Spring. I knew he was sincere. I knew and I nearly cried because I also knew he was wrong. I felt small enough to walk under the door. I was nothing wonderful. How could it be?