May the magic and wonder of the holiday season stay with you throughout the coming year.
A soccer player leaves the locker room,
her hair soaked, presses through
an outer door streaked with steam.
Outside, cold air spikes her hair with ice.
She passes the library, lit stacks,
where a sleepy student tries to write,
but the words slide into dream. The letters
have holes in them. He can step through.
The math major, after solving
the equation, getting the stubborn
numbers to slide into place,
now chooses a diagonal path
across the snowy quad, toward friends
raucous in the kitchen, a thudding beat.
And the last one out of Palmer Hall,
having mastered all
she can master of non-tariff barriers,
highly separable commodities,
market forces and exit strategies,
leans her shoulder into the massive
door, pushes until it gives.
on the wide steps, the sharp air
reminds her where she is.
She glances toward the peak:
new snow, a preternatural glow
as if soaked in stored light,
and below: the dark stone
that holds everything
— Jane Hilberry, professor of English