College of New Rochelle - Annales Yearbook (New Rochelle, NY)

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% . ;vf » . V • -v- • v ; Ginny O ' Brien Page 5

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Passing I noticed. My pepper pony, my Blueberry, is waiting for me, fussing at the bit. My restless pony, freedom of the green is drumming in your legs, urging you to gather quickly, evenly ... fly over a log and be off cantering down the slope without a break in stride. You ' re hoping I won ' t rein you in. Surprise, I too am wild, Blueberry. The brook runs before us. Past your belly flows the stream as you fight to keep a gallop now, then steady to a settled walk midway to the other side. Just across stands the orchard where you have more apples in an hourthan you could eat all fall. In stubborn content- ment your head drops to graze on fallen crab-apples. I slip the reins. We two are friends. You and I noticed. Passing we knew. Sunshine slipped from leaves, gently dropping on the rising riverbank. There sleeping, breathing softly, gently, lay a girl with vibrant violets twisted in her braid. Unconcerned she slept as one knowing a love lived in wakeful now. Each sun-drop drenched her dream, each was part in the stream of the dream of one. Freedom given, she slept. Freely freed, love watched. Sleeping freely in the sun, walls were broken wholly down. Bound in freedom they are one. She dreams the queen of hearts, she made some tarts all on a summer s day with blue-bells, cockleshells mixed in a row of clear silver bells. The owl and the pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat, rub-a-dub-dub three men in a tub, and all the king ' s men and all the king ' s horses five six pick up sticks, don t be late but be on time — there ' s a porpoise close behind me and he ' s treading on my tail. Our teddy bear is short and fat . . . when I was one I was just begun. Now I lay me down to sleep, Mary, Mary ne ' er contrary, how does your love grow, grow, grow? Page 4

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When sun is pouring life into the field, life is only buried to be dug out by a team of oxen and a man. In the cool hours of the morning air, the proof of my work is the joy of my worth; my oxen plow straighter than truth. When crickets are calling and birds are sleeping, earth is damp and waiting to give birth. Plowing deep and easy, without a strain, my oxen know no stress or harm. Together we toil, sweating, planting the crop. Harvesting is salvation now. The fruit of the land is born in my soul, and my soul rejoices in the fruit of life ... I am, I am. Stretching, stirring sleep, rubbing at her dream, she is hung in time suspended. Violet-braided hair is twisted round her neck, pressed against her cheek. Shifting senses know, not opening an eye, that love is waiting there for her to watch the ritual of the evening hours born. Evening hours die, a peaceful death and birth. Slowly she sits up, shaking slumber from her hair. Knowing time is come, she joins her love and and wakes in now. In peace each morning glory folds; each fading ray absolves the earth. Dusky twilight bars out the day, bars in the dark, calm soul. Joy spirals from the dusky skies ... star ... star ... stars. KATHLEEN A. BIE0ER Page 6