By Elijah Dahunsi '25
September 24, 2022
Spring forthcomes from wintry
chains, gusts caught solemnly
in pockets of silted soil. In time,
the breeze will bounce from cinders
of earth announced by the presence
of roses, returned to you from hands
that splinter with cracks of flesh,
of blood. A napkin, please, before
we enter this space, the hollow of
dirt and limestone and light produced
by glass with heat surrounding like fiery
bristles. We need no tour. To its doors
and floors we are akin. Kneeled down with
eyes draped by skin and joints pressed up
against the corpses of bark, we remind
ourselves that linens of dark await us,
that dust must always return. When
grace is said, and all but wind vacates
this place, we accept our sojourn to divinity.
Illustration by Ashley Yae '23