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Aug 132013
 

by Betsy Burke

 

I am

  not parched

   cement and

    pilfered stone,

     forever stepped

    on the hard

   path home.

 

        I am

      no friend

    of clad feet,

   I don’t echo

  their rhyme;

 I don’t rub

shoulders

 with streets

 or keep

  the posture

   of signs.

 

I am

 red clay,

  from the place

   I was raised,

    imbedded

    beneath the

   fingernails

  of childhood

 days.

         

        I am

       the silk

     of the earth,

    the paste

   of play, the

  conqueror 

  of white,

  I am

   Indian

    paint.

 

 I am

 the walls

  of the creek,

     the holder

      of treasure;

       the snow of

      spring shade,

     a cool plunge

   of pleasure.

      

       I am

      the sinking

     of feet, bare

    toes writing

   summer;

  an imprint

  of daydreams

   as the sun

    sinks towards

     slumber.

 

I am

  the relic

    of small

      hands,

       sun dried

        into memory;

      a token

    on the shelf

   of lost

 curiosity.

 

        I am

      not just

    the stretch

   of hours,

  passing

 the sun;

not the chime

of bell towers

 singing

  what’s done.

 

      

I am

  not just

    moments

      lapsed

      in the day’s

       hollow drone;

        I am the

       way back

      to before

     we were

    stone.