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Our Story Keeps Writing Itself
by Haoran Ton ’23
a poem for the inauguration of Michael A. Elliott
Through a moonlit mist hovering over fresh snow,
roofs swaying and hiding away—
the Holyoke Range stretches far,
which the voices from our books prolong.
We flow in the dim lamplight,
seeking encounter with each other’s shadows.
In this quiet town turned home
(where dated oaks implant their seeds in wet soil),
greetings from two hundred years
coalesce into a faithful present.
Without questioning who we were or where we might go,
we all converge to illuminate the minds
until the last evening glow
burgeons from autumnal maples.
Earth and sky allow us
to search, to find liberation,
to bear witness to the truth,
to explore with scholars and friends
solemn chimeras made of words.
Our story keeps writing itself.
Still water runs deep,
red leaves tint the brick walls,
pavements crisscross, guiding us
to the delicate scent of pine trees.
Every separation prepares us for a reunion;
every return, a fresh beginning.
We collect a fleeting sense of permanence,
breathing the same transience of an unstable time
for our lives to steadily tremble–
to grow with fractures, yet develop still–
to fill our eyes with sparks of memories
and find our hearts a home.
Together we linger as the warmth of poems
brings rebirth,
and, as the late wind sweeps across the memorial hill,
the ripples from a shooting star are collectively heard.