Through brush strokes of rain you are a man waiting in a painting of library doors. But the scene moves out of its frame as students come jostling past you down the steps. They are the age we were when we first met here in the almost unbearable joy of reunion after two days apart. Now it has been years. I hide behind windshield wipers, but you see me anyway and come down the stone stairs in a jumble of students who are oblivious to this particular poem that is not in their books.