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Post by leecrowell on Dec 3, 2011 0:00:35 GMT -5
against an indifferent sky remind me that even though the dead don’t come back a greenness lies latent in the moisture of frozen bark. The inevitable revival prompts me with such certainty I book summer rooms at the shore, afternoons with husked corn and sweet tomatoes, plan ventures off road to camp under the stars. You and I will catch our drift on Lazy River floats and there will be small new faces with curious eyes.
I can only imagine the fires he lit as a ‘screaming eagle’ floating into hostility on his tour of England, France, Belgium, Holland, then Germany. I was involved in the later sparks, the drunken binges with his brother, the late night foul mouthed spats into brawls on our front yard. But he left us whole and ingrained enough to perpetuate the cycle. He transitioned us from a world of dead young men, a life hinged on daily headlines and radio reports into a calmness of water parks with new faces and curious eyes, our biggest fear the value of our homes.
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Post by Don Schaeffer on Dec 3, 2011 10:12:23 GMT -5
That's true poetic autobiography. You don't need details.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Dec 6, 2011 3:38:26 GMT -5
you bring together so many emotions and images that contrast yet stay together with the force of a permanent thunderstorm
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