Tucked away in the New England woods,
There is a post card come to life
A place that is to the world what a poem is to paper

Poetry runs wild here
It hides in the forest, tumbles down the hills, and sparkles on the snow
In summer, the wistful green hills stretch lazily into the distance
In winter, virgin snow coats the ground with wonder and solitude
That momentarily whisks onlookers away to a different world

An old white house is perched atop these hills
One of the few things time forgot to wash away
It was and is the only thing it could be: a boarding school for girls
Such a quintessential place

History pulses in that house, and comes alive with every floorboard’s creak
The old house tells its stories with such creaks
And poses different questions:
How many shoes have scuffed this hallway?
How many giggling girls have scrambled through these corridors?
You can only know once you too have scuffed, scrambled, or giggled
And scattered some of your own memories around

Only here does imagination waltz with the past,
Do visions of girls run barefoot across the field
Summers are frittered away beneath the clear blue sky,
While brisk Autumns conduct symphonies of color in the trees
Silence lies on the ground in winter

In the shade beneath the trees,
I walk up the road to enter history
Or at the very least, exit reality