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I've hopscotched cross-country riding Greyhound buses waiting in dirty terminals - those havens for drifters... And I recall my arrival here, ( it was ten years ago, or so...) and your sister, Carol
For many this is a time of festivity, of good tidings, gifts, food and family... While the words, " merry" and " happy" float in the air like shimmering snowflakes.
Vagabond, humming- bird hearted fluttering to and fro sipping the sweetness ( often the bitterness) of this thing called life. Migratory Migrant like a Monarch wafting with
I am not the memory of a hard mother's voice staccatod like gunfire of, " Why don't you?" " Why can't you?" I am the desire to flow clear like a silver river floating free