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228 INGRID WENDT Paraphrase in Time of Thaw —A collage for William Stafford And what does the river say, agelessly pulsing along, awake to its own part of forever, to all multiple ways of belonging, gathering traces of ridge top, wind litanies creasing the thin skins of glaciers, those millions of crow’s feet trickling down and away, gathering sunlight, its party the rain; gathering certainty: all is attached, in constant revision. Tight fists of boulders unfolding. Like lines in the palm, like fortunes weathered away, converging at sea. And again in the air. What the river says, the birds repeat. Far from any human allegiance to grudges and righteousness, their voices proclaim the stars. 229 And the stars keep passing along what the mountains rumble: a center the soul can recognize. As in a whirlwind. That one chosen place buried somewhere near the lift of an eyebrow, near faith. What the river says, calls us to attention, to carrying on. Someday, maybe, our stumbling echoes holding one shifting line true. This page intentionally left blank. This page intentionally left blank. ...


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MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
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