我已数遍宿舍木梯的每一级纹路。
走廊尽头的白框窗，
将四年的晨光折成纸飞机，
轻轻塞进
书包最深的夹层。
旧课本里压制的植物标本，
正用纤细的叶脉低语，
唱着我们当年
曾经算错的方程式。
—
春
樱花如粉红云爆，
垂落宿舍小径。
树下有人捧着咖啡杯，
等待某片花瓣坠入——
一杯属于十七岁的，
永远喝不干的咖啡
—
夏
草坪边的山茱萸，
像一场白色集会。
花瓣上的锈斑，
是淋湿的信笺上
未写完的句子。
SHAC楼后的丁香，
把香气压进黑胶唱片的沟纹。
每年五月，琴弦总奏响
我们青春
走调的副歌。
—
秋
球场边的糖枫，
将天空点燃成蜜糖色。
主街的银杏叶铺开
金色考卷。
我们赤脚走过，
突然读懂
所有用古老文字
写就的答案。
—
冬
雪花在期中试卷的空白处，
留下柔软批注：
“所有的冰封，
都是春天
练习如何破土重生。”
—
第五季——毕业
蒲公英在露台边缘
组成啦啦队。
窗台上的三色堇
排练着孟德尔的梦。
小教堂石缝间的苔藓，
正丈量两个多世纪的故事——
且仍在继续。
它对我耳语：
“毕业是地下蔓延的根系：
离开是另一种方式的
归来绽放。”
此刻，
有人在宿舍草坪跪下，
埋下一朵木槿花。
它会发酵得比怀念更快，
香气浓烈得足以
散发到未来百年。
老师曾擦去的化学式，
在艺术中心天花板
重组为星图。
我们交换的球衣号码，
仍在洗衣机里旋转，
完成一支永不终止的
华尔兹。
当MAC楼将夕阳
铸成钥匙的形状，
图书馆的玻璃变得柔软。
我终于明白：
那些模糊褪色的问号，
不过是康科德的云，
在练习
如何告别
才能不落泪。
I've counted every wooden stair in the dormitory.
At the end of the hallway, a white-framed window
folds four years of morning light
into paper planes,
tucking them quietly
into the deepest pocket of my backpack.
In our old textbook, pressed plant specimens
whisper through their delicate veins,
singing the equations
we once got wrong.
Spring
Cherry blossoms erupt in pink clouds
along the dormitory path.
Someone waits beneath the tree,
hoping a petal might fall
into their coffee cup:
one of seventeen
that's never truly empty.
Summer
Dogwoods line the quad
like a white congregation in session.
Rust-colored flecks on the petals
read like rain-drenched letters
never quite finished.
Behind the SHAC, lilacs bloom.
Their scent compresses into vinyl grooves,
and every May, the strings begin to play
the off-key chorus of our youth.
Autumn
The sugar maple by the field
sets the sky aflame,
burning it into honeyed gold.
On Main Street, ginkgo leaves
unfurl a golden examination.
We walk barefoot across it,
suddenly understanding
every answer
written in an ancient tongue.
Winter
Snowflakes leave soft white notes
in the margins of our midterm exams:
"All sub-zero temperatures
are just spring
learning to grow upside down."
The Fifth Season—Graduation
Dandelions form a cheering squad
at the edge of the patio.
Pansies on the windowsill
rehearse Mendel's dream.
Moss creeps between the stones
at the Chapel's base,
Over two centuries of stories
and counting.
It whispers to me:
"Graduation is a root-born plant,
Leaving is only another way
to return and bloom."
Now—
someone kneels on the dormitory lawn
to bury a single hibiscus bloom.
It ferments before the yearbook,
its fragrance strong enough
to carry the weight
of a hundred years to come.
The chemical equations
our teacher once erased
reassemble as constellations
on the ceiling of the art center.
Jersey numbers we traded
spin in the laundry machines,
finishing a waltz
that never ends.
When the MAC building casts the sunset
into the shape of a key,
the library glass softens
and I finally understand:
those fogged and fading question marks
were just Concord's clouds,
rehearsing
how to say goodbye
without tears.