Poem for Theresa Spence and #IdleNoMore

The Pathway


Trudging over fickle ice crystals,
moss brittle, trees broken.

Collecting slight sheets
of birch bark for scribbling.

We hear a deer cry out
somewhere deep in the brush.

What did it sound like?
I dunno. Eeyou?

That's not right.
I have no right words.

It is a song of sadness.
Maybe hunger. I don't really know.

I am compelled to sing but yet
I do not feel worthy to speak out.


Where is the out?
No out but in a triumph of vision.

The storm wind flings snow
to build many proud mountains.

We will find out the measure of a man
through the spirit of a people.

Death, my two year old said,
is a man who feels scared.

Greg Santos
St. Martins, New Brunswick
December 29, 2012

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