The wind in her hair,
A sun-shadowed face
My twinge of despair,
Memory's disgrace,
This snapshot divine,
Proportioned, surreal,
Prime treasure of mine
Recall can't appeal.

A thief in the night,
Stealing the treasures
In things kept despite
Knowing our pleasures
Invoked, will destroy;
But objects men steal,
Although we employ,
Don't touch what we feel.

Time is the worst thief,
Replacing life's joy
With unending grief...
That sweet baby boy,
Its mother's bright smile,
Their memory, gone...
Lonely denial,
Nights dragging to dawn.

--Fr. Veni di Morte



copyright 1998, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved