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Marching Men

J Ann Crowder

Words come like marching men in battalions stomping mossy battle grounds
 
They, brave hearted stones—steady, rooted mountains
 
Their chests like Eagle’s breasts—expanded, lifted
 
Porous fields of mud, ready to soak the heart’s spilled blood—crimson woven to pages flocking upon winds turning
 
Birthing history—the fight song
 
Struck the dirt—stamping lines
 
Sculpting notes, sounds, and images
 
Men marching—words stomping
 
Candles burning a glow upon the shadowed, white pillows of slumber
 
A flower’s roots escape to depths of porous mud
 
Nigh, a root’s heart blossoms upon surfacing waves of springtide’s eternal and priceless gem

Written December 27th, 2017.

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