The Pathway
I.
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.
II.
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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