In a New England type of fog with
$2.50 coffee staining tongue and breath and the
Sound of archangels of learning from on high
Like so many clicking, whirring thoughts
I follow the masses of the hopeful into a place of study that looks a lot like one of worship.
Autumn doesn’t crunch when it’s damp
and humidity fluffs the hair and erases that Oxford-like
Chorus of Thought and Expression--
Truth, Light, walk umbrella-burdened backwards, guide the way.
If we are but blowin’ in the wind, says Bob Dylan so it must be true,
what is a tree-lined street and a spire
(Artificial, we’re told, he burned his own buildings to mark archaic)
and a clock with no face?
Rather, senior theses and pretentious eyebrows mark our path from cradle to grave
no matter the campus.
Zora Ilunga-Reed is a junior at Stanford where she is studying Philosophy and Literature. She is a native New Yorker.