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Bound In A History Book At the tracks that sever a small Georgia town, I cross to the past. Sodden with sounds and odors, life mirrors rough sketches on battered textbook pages. The thump of a hoe clumped with red clay is the life beat of a spiritual that saturates the day. Greens and bacon sizzle in a black skillet, the smell melds with smoke from the wood stove. Nana rocks on the porch of the shack; boards creak stories to children around her lullaby chair. I sit on the edge of time. |
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