As she walks in, the atmosphere silently wisps around, showering mystery and depth. The lyre is playing, held by Hera's sweet hand. Quieting irrational thoughts, the mystagogue silently leads the young one across the threshold. Will she, can she survive? Nothing but time can tell. The fact is, however, that she made it. Unique and compelling, the years will stay forever, shaping her to grab hold of dreams, stand for beliefs, and lead. A ritual she will pass on, a symphony she will live.

by stroking the lyre
the old music
has survived

my first dance
I said no
...he wouldn't stop

in the twilight
and snowflakes...
I walk home alone

careening birds
make daddy smile
in his flight suit

a smoky haze,
loyalties shattered
are now crystal clear

loving grace—
shakened foundation
while the old willow stands firm

sprinkling waterfall
toy soldiers drowning...
with my rubber duckie

Courtney, the shortbus, sits quietly in her corner, smiling while the president talks. Granted, Kaylin's words are heard, but the doodles shine with stories and emotion. Line after line she writes his name, thinking of the future. Every few minutes, a slight nudge from the friend beside drags back the present. But Erin isn't listening either. The girls laugh and joke instead. Now the meeting is adjourned, the days pass, the work is done, and the boy is here. How does she do it? No one knows the strategy, a job well done, and a happy fiancé. Every college girl's dream!

today I practiced
taking your name
. . . as my own