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Saturday, 29 December 2012
Elizabeth Brewster 1922-2012
Where I Come From
People are made of places. They carry with them hints of jungles or mountains, a tropic grace or the cool eyes of sea gazers. Atmosphere of cities how different drops from them, like the smell of smog or the almost-not-smell of tulips in the spring, nature tidily plotted with a guidebook; or the smell of work, glue factories maybe, chromium-plated offices; smell of subways crowded at rush hours.
Where I come from, people carry woods in their minds, acres of pine woods; blueberry patches in the burned-out bush; wooden farmhouses, old, in need of paint, with yards where hens and chickens circle about, clucking aimlessly; battered schoolhouses behind which violets grow. Spring and winter are the mind's chief seasons: ice and the breaking of ice.
A door in the mind blows open, and there blows a frosty wind from fields of snow.
2 comments:
beautiful piece
Lovely poem. I am sorry to hear of her death. She taught at, or presided at, one of the universities I attended - either U of A, or York, not sure.
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