Inklings 2025

Oak Trees Kayra Serpenguzel ’25 I feel a brisk northeasterly wind brushing over my knitted wool cardigan Feeling it whirl over my face— but it’s just the air conditioner Turned up to an extremity, in my spanish classroom I long to see the oak tree leaves Melt into warm hues of brown and red, A paintbrush intended to paint green strokes accidentally dipped in the wrong color The water blends the hues together, But the palm fronds around me remain stagnant, stubborn in their lime color, Permanent. Still summer Who will tell these trees, That it’s September it’s time to change But change, Comes when you least expect it When you least want it. one day— That brush of cool air won’t be from an unreasonably high air conditioner 13