by Charity Chapman


Red brick buildings of old
peeked out from beneath sprawling
limbs, whose lush and lively
leaves swayed about gently.
Countless emeralds riding
the wind as it caressed
them with it’s carefree waltz
through the atmosphere.

It was as if some spectacular
and beautifully preserved
colonial town was surrounding
me on all sides. One could get
lost in the moment and imagine
men, women and children
in period clothing walking about.

Then the voices of students
going on about there last class
could be heard, reminding me
that I was standing at the center
of Ohio University.

Strolling onward, the look of
age would begin to dwindle,
except for a few magnificently
preserved chapels. They stood
out from amongst more modern
structures, such as bookstores
and the plentiful abundance
of restaurants that lined
Court Street.

Each author that had descended
upon this scenic college town
seemed to have their own
unique personalities. One thing
they had in common was
that they all breathed life into
their written works.

George Saunders,
I thought and still think
topped them all,
delivering his readings
with amazing energy.
Not only could he write,
but he proved he could act.
He’d give each and every
person that spoke within
the words their own special voice.

In the ballroom, where he spoke,
the white glow cast itself
upon a trinity of yellows, whites
and purples. Clear glass enveloped
their long emerald legs.

How lovely it would have been if, within
them, souls could have bloomed. If there were
a beautiful mass waltz occurring
there that night, some wondrous magic
might have rained down upon them and
allowed them to leap forth and join in.

High upon the hill, grand works
of art within the sprawling castle
could not disguise it’s wretched
past. It gazed down upon the lovely
town, intimidating those who stared back.