Jessica Fiola

The Mistress Of Time

Her hands are woven, bent with age.
Her face shows the remnant wrinkles of a million smiles.
Her eyes, more cloudy now, strain to see her distant future.
There is no room for growth,
But she is my tree of comfort,
Whose roots reach back to generations.
Even in the midst of emotional hurricanes and physical disaster,
She still stands tall,
As she has for nearly a century.





[TABLE OF CONTENTS, LHS CLASS OF 2009 EDITION]


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