St Agnes High School - Palm Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

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Dawn slips slowly in- to your heart pushing out all Remnants of nightmares. Anne Zicari '71 It's beautiful to hear you Smile Like soft kittens Your kiss shines on me As gentle wisps of peace- Come to blanket our souls in sleep yes I rest I dream It's beautiful to hear you Smile Like suns that burn You toast tenderness into me Coloring in- deep tanned faces of living laughter yes I melt dreaming once again It's beautiful to hear you Smile Like shivering snowflakes that tip roses You frost my Love with warm Stinging fire into cold corners yes I feel I fall into your dreams again . . . It's beautiful to hear you Smile Like little children making sad stories with eyes You wrap sorrow through mine Closing me carefully in As you hug my life yes I reach l touch teared dreams again and again It's beautiful to hear you Smile Like lips together forming angels of care You lick smiles on smiles Tickling me in Love I Smile I love It's beautiful to hear you Smile. Rachelle Annunxiato '7I Today was iust like any other day-the wind sliced the green grasses as smoothly as its counterpart, the sickle. I drank my morning tea lhot and bittersweetl and felt the strong sun break- ing the barriers of man-made glass. As I sat at my table of plenty, pen and paper set before me, I was trying to think of what to say, or rather how to write my thoughts. Lately, lin my life at leastl shadows seemed darker and hours lonlier and longer and more isolated. Darkness is forever enclosing me like a midnight painted box encloses all deadened entity. How futile it appeared to be . . . I felt an emptiness inside my attic walls--a closeness of obiects always known, yet frequently forgotten ltaken for grantedl as they were always there for me to behold. But now, now it was different. A mystery loomed in the dark cellars of my mind. When nature's puppets are obscure, a mid-morning coldness crept inside my world, touching not only me, but those things that I considered my friends. My bed, crusted with age, the funny, scarred door leading outside and my candles, cracked from lack of use, all turned shades of pallor and rust. Something in my environment was making a vast difference in my outlook, slowly becoming bleak and inward. I can remember when, as a child, I would sit in my mother's room, braiding my fiery-gold hair, so long and thick. Innocence, dolls, make-believe fantasies occupied the spare moments in my mind then. Country rides with momma on Sunday afternoon always were something to look forward to. We'd run through those daisy-studded meadows, laughing, picking every field-flower in sight. How I miss momma, who always smelled like our Sunday afternoons. And, oh, how I miss seeing those flowers, all that green, all those colors-how I miss seeing . . . I wonder if the sky is as bright and mellowed blue as I last saw it? Could things be so changed that I couldn't even recognize them by their smell or texture? People must be changed-no one bothers to take me on a Sunday outing-no one probably knows I'm here . . . Today is the last of the stagnent hours spent alone inside this dungeon. I, too, am growing pale-almost vegetable-like. Maybe in the new light, I will be able to see a new world, one like that of my childhood, where I will notice God's handiwork, and where he can show me mine. Maybe, Ievenl he will teach me how to see with my mind, my hands, my lips, then I won't miss the dark absence of my eyes so much. Kathye Keck '71 55

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she is a woman. her abilities are her own-known to no man, in existence onl to complement him y . her capacity to give is unquestionable and unextinguish- able. her silence is her knowledge, her love, her wisdom. her words are comfort, her body is fuel. the source of her strength comes from within, the bending and the breakings of it, known only to her. she is the bearer of life and carries the responsi- bility of its ioy. she is the sensitivity of the dawn. she is the endurance of the day and the comfort of night. she is the laughter of a child. she is the breath of man. li he his he he his his his his his he he he he he is a man. strength knows no limit. if is the foundation-he is the rock. is the maintenance of all existence. knowledge is the power of life. words are the bearers of truth. mind is the challenge of being. enjoyment is the simplicity of being. presence is stability. is the giver of life and the silent watcher of its growth. is the gentle master of the seas a nd hills. is the freedom of the winds and the answer of their echo. is the means of life. is. 54 Marion Macaluso '71

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THE TRAVELER I hang alone in solitude, Suspended from a barren tree, Her branches shake from fear of what I know will overpower me. Thus, my enemy approaches, Cruelly snatching me from my home, Foretelling the storm's arrival, And I set oft, the world to roam. l'm tossed gracefully through the a Settling only now and then. Passing over the rocky path, A stream I see and stop again. Floating round the rippling water Like a small boat without a sail, I play hide-and-seek with shadows, As they quickly pursue my trail. The rugged sides are vast canyons, And though the rocks get in my way, Under one, I seek a haven, A sheltered, peaceful place to stay. Catherine Nowaski '74 Sometimes when the sun comes out it blinds me with its glare i can't see at all. or clouds can block the light and black or gray blankets all i still can't see. maybe someday on a nice day i'll be able to sit warm in the sun and still see the shadows. Anne Zicari '71 ir, . . It used to be that time and goodness had something to do with the sun- now the orange fire only casts light for leaping, QVUY realities of shadows. Mary Sue Scarciotta '71 Wave over wave tumbling Erasing in its ebb Footprints in the sand Ellen Mayoue '71 LEAF Eyeing the world from your home- dangling, falling, soaring with the wind . . . creeping across and over above and around gliding, watching, riding the world to its end. The leaf . . . Ellen O'leary '74