While you studied
or dozed, forehead dipping to the desk
made suddenly soft by weariness,
the oak and spruce inched
imperceptibly up, and a hawk's eyes
deepened from gold to brown.
How many lilies since you've been here?
You carried your books, even in snow,
scribbled notes or didn't, and the world
quickened to you. Did you notice?
It came to you laden with molecules
and galaxies fanned out like bouquets.
Someone handed you an ancient word
for your fresh, crimson feeling,
and it unlocked a technicolor door
in your brain. Did you walk through?
Don't worry, it waits for you here,
at the edge-blur of every day.
So much evidence:
heaps of lecture notes, photos,
mementos from early loves. Your heart
hammered through every essay and equation.
Here is an omen: you may miss this
one day, being invited again and again
to expand. It is exhausting to be amazed
all the time. But here you are.
The oak is two feet taller, and the hawk
born the season you arrived is now
ready for a mate, and there have been—
oh, countless—lilies. And here you are, poised,
one foot on the crisp edge of future.