By Linda Zixia Liu ’19
Will you believe me, if I tell you
I have the best friends
One could ever wish for?
(They are quite a handful,
But made my life colorful:
All shades of ruby, brown, and golden,
Amber, blue, and peacocky.
They hardly turn rosy, never blushy,
But under the sun,
Two burn, and one ripens.)
I write one type of poems only,
Those sad ones
About falling in and out of love.
(So they asked me,
“Would you ever write a happy poem?”
I said no, but my mind worked me on a yes;—
Maybe we are just missing the kiss.)
But this is the spring,
And after many a winter days,
Flowers blossom into soft pink clouds,
The lake unleashes
Its musical pulses:
Grand movements of the wind, humble movements of the ripples,
The graceful lazy swan, floating diagonally across the lake,
Wash him over.
In spring, we start our lives at a college park,
Wind, chasing the smells of clean linen,
Through two opened window panes,
And the pink curtains,
Full on one side,
Empty on the other,
Follow kisses from the spring, the earth,
And after all,
The bacteria that activate our brains.
(Maybe one of them can even get the joke.)
In spring, I started my life at a college park,
Followed an apple home,
Muscles cooked me food,
And Garfield, that look never die in her eyes.
Shhh. Peace, peace.
And if it really helps, think about the Pope,
The frosts of the winter
The ones that just melted last month.
Walking hand in hand, marching across the winter:
Searched for Aslan, Mr. Reindeer, and Susan’s wardrobe.
The white, rectangular kitchen table
Rimmed in wooden stripes,
Our half-basement, half-buried in snow.
And then came the Friday nights,
Under mid-summer’s lights,
Three blankets and eight legs,
Green lanterns glow overhead.
In Boston and New York City alike,
Our adventures, the search,
For warmness, meanings, and ourselves.
But in our world, we found no magical forests,
Or the jumping lamp
That leads the way to Zeniba’s wooden house.
Found no lavender-colored eves,
Or windy, swaying lambs.
But we found each other,
And with all deformities and virtues alike,
Laughed our weirdest laugh,
And woke the happiest star, from clouds and clouds of the night.
And the next morning, Apollo, in his Golden Chariot, wakes the sun.
Here comes the spring.
Dark days will never be.
Can you hear the songs from the pond,
By the frogs,
When the night sinks in
And envelops the world?
The dewy mist, sweet air,
And the quiet smiles, dimming intimate in the dark.
At that precise moment when you hear their songs,
Look for the dark, gentle branches
That reach out, and weave their nets in the sky.
“In all our searching, the only thing we’ve found
That makes the emptiness bearable
Is each other.” – Carl Sagan
At the college park, we start to weave a net,
Pulling the thread from one room to another,
Covering the bathroom with confetti,
And our backs, with French fish.
When the noises at the park
Go down, the parents call for their rolling dogs
On the grass, and the children pick up their toys
From the swing,
When the college park turns back into its usual bubble,
Shrinks in meaning and expands in size.
What now, what still makes life
Past midnight, we heat up the leftover Indian food,
Scallion pancakes, and eggplants.
The French fish hanging from the bookcase,
Confetti paper clogging the sink,
Two bunnies on top of my shortsheeted bed.
Every year, when seniors graduate,
We ask them, “What will you miss the most
About your Wellesley days?”
And when ’tis time, and the question comes my way,
I will refuse to answer.
It does happiness a disgrace
If you reduce content and gratitude into words:
Only half will be said, and the other half
Will go away. So let us remain silent
When they ask us about our Wellesley days,
And the sisters of our lives.