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

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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

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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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WITH THE WIND What a good feeling beneath the trees, so powerful and still. I sit in the grasses, with the wind rasping hoarsely through the gnarled branches enclosing me. And I breathe silently thinking how lonely it is now that l'm free. Kathy Keck '71 Wind blustering around me and I put my head to my knees searching for the warmth of my soul. And finding it, l threw up my head, smiling, defiant to the wind. It had brought me more peace, not stripped me, and I had won. Not even its cold bite could shake my hold on the earth. W Susan Washington '71 l you are the wind i sometimes contlne myself to live in far-off places. i spend those days in a castle. sometimes i go to the great fields where winter wheat grows. i sit down among the wheat, i arrange my robes and cape. i see the wheat bending, i know you are there, somehow, ever constant. somehow never changing. somehow never forgetful in my mind. you are the wind, blowing songs through mY mind . . . Helen Stevens '72 57