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The live oaks are giants and bent in ways unknown to other trees.
Some were here when this place was part of another nation
Their roots mound and spill over the brick edging
and onto the wide walkways
This place bears the unmistakable marks of the careful tending of many generations
In summer one must almost be entunneled here, the deep shade making the southern day bearable
I see the marks of classes long gone, some that can have no one left living
Names of men and women, Greek letters, metal signs telling of beloved professors, forgotten now
How many have walked here, worried about one exam or another
How many have left a classroom and come into this open air and realized
That they have learned something; that the world is different from what they thought
That it is bigger, more mysterious, less fearsome
How many have fallen in love and learned that their love was returned
Or that it was not.
The air is thick. I will not wait for dusk.
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