Phoenix Country Day School - Phoenician Yearbook (Paradise Valley, AZ)

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AT ONCE IF EVER I DIE The thing that is important to me now is not: the reality of god or angels (i don ' t care as long as i can touch the sky) and not the theory of evolution or some mental patient ' s idea of the future as it stands in his mind (which by the way is still hung up on the stock market crash of 1929 !) or even the scientific explanation (behind) the emergence of a winged and wonderful wander ing butterfly . . . from an ugly, brown cocoon. No: i dont care if the wind moves southeast at 8. 10 miles per hour and the days depend on electrical power (for all i know: there would be no daylight at all, per say, if america turned off all its switches :AT ONCE) I want just to have the security of knowing, i can blink my , eyes , tickle a dande- lion (touch the sky) and out of j oy start crying. if ever i die if ever i leave (here) Suddenly! and without warning . . . like a storm; laugh at my departure giggle at my demise. Don ' t let the edges of your smile droop down ward into despair, inch those quivering edges into a smile and don ' t let it collapse ' cause (when you do) i think i will die inside for good. Until then, my mind is still romping in grass roots and dandelions and grasping at butter- flies . , . so let it remain at peace smile at my still body and know that it is happy with in. 191

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Illusion I fell in to a pool of blue Upon a peacock ' s shining tail- Into a world of green and gold, With trim of lace and fairy-tale. A crystal dandelion grew And shattered in the first soft breeze; The seeds fell back into the earth Up in the sky, among the trees- With fingers dainty as the night She grasped the sky and held it there, A silver Broach on velvet green. Her olive hands fondling the air. I woke again and saw the sky Of shimmering, powdered egg-shell blue; The trees of brown, the grass of green. I wonder still which world was true. Debra Shadow of Beauty Is there anything more beautiful than the petals of a flower :unfolding The moth flitters quickly In the night sky, and With his last fleeting breath Dreams to reach the stars. A blade of grass ■.bending (under the weight of eons :raining) Aspirations The fragile moth formed of dust, Flutters freely in the wind, Seemingly content to stay Near the earth in his brief life. Yet who knows what dreams he holds- Sparks of thought within his heart. Flashes of hope, alive but a bit. Only to disappear unheard. A lonesome bird :circling the sky (desolate of fear and pain ) ? Or : a shadow of love on the window sill; where many loves have lain? 190

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