Outside, the first fearsome winds of winter
berate and bully barren trees,
howl round stolid buildings of brick,
whip the faces of lonely passers-by.
I am driven in, into the hushed realm of tables and chairs,
surrounded by stacks upon stacks of books
emanating scents of old yellowing paper, ink and binding,
kept company in quiet isolation by coffee, books, and unwritten words.
Finals and ominous, gleaming, tell-tale letters loom ahead,
mostly ignored, or kept on pretense of such
(as I wish they did not have such power over me).
And the existential crisis of the culminating three weeks wells within me,
asking, “why am I here?” and “why do I care?”
and “what does it matter?”
A bright and glorious sunset is strewn across the sky,
the skeletons of trees silhouetted against,
ribbed with the reflections of narrow fluorescent lights,
transparent towers of commentaries superimposed over brick dorms and purple sky.
The window-scenes dim, fade into thorough darkness;
the books crowd closer, impel my fingers to type faster,
hot coffee inspires, enlivens my veins,
and estrangement from the world enforces productivity.
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