Westwood High School - Green Years Yearbook (Westwood, MA)

Page 106 text:

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Page 105 text:

Montes Vidi felt no hunger Until the red dawn insisted upon my eyelids. Penetrating the pre-aurorian mists. And I awakened on the shoulder of a personal idol. Remnant of a fortress now just dust. Feeling day, warm and pliant, conform to my toes On the highest vantage in the valley. The foothills wavered gently and fuzzy in the fog And, squinting in the dim translucence, I saw only the polarized shadows of screaming eagles That sometimes brushed the empty air above me. And never saw the damp fernfronds And forests below me Nor the mushrooms and lichens beneath them. Then, as the rising disc of light Sharpened outlines into focused pain, Con-i-fer-ous cli-max com-mun-i-ties Grew up scratching. Steaming ferns unfurled, laden with spores. Mosses merged, and marched upon my refuge And worms hallowed the inside; creeping. The hours leveled it; gradually, minutelly. Until, angry, I stood on the forest floor. Ankle-deep and barefoot in pine needles. Slapping mosquitoes. Through the crossbatch of hemlock I saw the hillsides; I climbed Alone with others through brittle branches and brambles. And encountered only stark crags of grey That cast giant shadows over the headlands. Cras, eos ascendebo. IB ' —Margaret Geary

Page 107 text:

Reflections in a ciiildhood mirror small and quick and vital in a seeking sense the smells and sounds and sights still linger familiar in a place so lately parted from, short snatch of green. It ' s time to jump and grasp the dancing air-filled symbol of a thousand vagaries. Conceal not now the beauty of this imagined flight glittering golden, winged in the eyelike blink flicker sun, but treasure it rolling in a breeze relived, remembered. Vast emptiness, the urge to make it folly filled a change of clothes, inventive olive captivated cocktail office blues, and hired help. Sweat broken beads and discontent. Night crossing a bridge the breadth of a moment past approach the premonition of hideous loveless life. Darkness, a false opaque and drapelike cover, to hide it all and play the game with our eyes while long ago our hearts discerned the truth and throbbed a little less. The hollowness that rose and fell and whispered words of resignation. And blindness grew throughout the body. We wait, in hope of miracles, for a cure, for a laying of hands upon ourselves and an opening of close closed hearts. Light cleansed, allow the entrance of some little joy. For there is hope in long soaring shadows cast beneath a shimmering sun and measured with a self recognition of delight, small pearls of satisfaction, pleasure in a life unique. —Deborah Marvel 75