Darrell PetskaRise, my creaky fellows!
What finer curative than Sol´s
lusty green display for bodies
steel-shored and leaning
like ivy-covered Old Main—
Prankish frisbees dodge shirtless young men,
bikinied young women lolling nearby,
the quadrangle ablaze with courtship ritual,
lush grass abetting desire whilst the petaled
breeze enchants dewy-eyed architects
of tomorrows near as the hand each holds,
feeling there all meaning, every hope, the world
as it shall be through love´s willful intensity.
Days as this spill generous,
even to winnowers of the archives.
What boon to sober heads and lettered eyes
an idyllic turn amidst such spectacle—
Our names have yet to be etched
into Memorial Fountain´s stone.
Hear the carillon´s high bells tolling.
What Do You Think?
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