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Channel: blue skies poetry » Marion Brooker
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Seasons

I run barefoot in spring not because of need but because of desire splash in roadside puddles, feel mud ooze up through toes Feet feeling winter retreat deep into the earth, hiding, regrouping. My feet...

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An Anthem

I will thunder the drum of stampeding buffalo. I will cry with the crashing scorched bones in the sun I will ride the train whistle over ripe prairie grain fields, over land yet untouched by the hand...

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I Will Speak

I will speak of a rolling pin not as a maker of pies but as a keeper of memories, a teller of tales. I will touch the handles and know that a young bride first touched these handles carved in the quiet...

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Vimy

This Canada, eighty-five hectares a gift of gratitude Loam rich with decomposition of bone, marrow, blood, flesh, sinews, sweat. Echoes of guns, screams, tramping boots fading with time The sun of this...

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