By Anson Richman, ’25

Do you see it?

Silver towers rising like upturned nails,
no, like vines climbing stakes,
on an endless quest for the sun,

whose light makes them shine brighter.
Below them, an endless pool of emerald green.

Not just grass, but shrubs,
moss that caresses your feet,
vines you once were so sure were weeds,
and flowers everywhere.

And oh, the music!
Strains of melodies you know,
shifting and weaving into forms entirely new,
rejoining each other in an unprecedented refrain.

Horizons surround you in all directions.

Everything is free.

You are free.

But you can’t see any of it.
You can’t know it.

Because it is not real.