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North American Dreaming: I Had No Way

William Burkholder's poem enfolds a sombre mystery.

Do please visit Bill's Web site http://www.freewebs.com/nirvanasgate/index.htm

Why she left that there;
I will never know.
She simply said that the red
Reminded her of blood.
That she didnít like the sight of it,
She was more cottering
To violets yellows and oh yes,
Her favorite, green.
Every Sunday during the summer;.
She came to my cottage
And would color for me
On the front porch.
Didn't matter what it was,
I was glad for the company.
Wonderful brown hair she had;
That her Mother must have brushed
Every night for her.
And such a gay laugh and giggle.
We would talk and while away
Those summer Sunday afternoons.
Coloring. drinking iced tea,
An occasional ice cream.

She placed that blood red crayon on my window sill
That last Sunday afternoon; she left it there for me
Saying she didnít like red.
It scared her.
I had no way of wiping the blood from my shirt or my face.
You see, a ghost has no hands with which to wipe with.


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