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Form I had to do when I got home. We had to run home, to do what we had to do. During lunch time we had to go pick blackberries and didn't even have that time off. I remember sandspurs. We had to go out to a well to wash, it was a long way and those sandspurs would stick our feet. That was in Eastman, Georgia. I don't regret none of it. Now I know what it is all about. I learnt me what it is all about. I had to do what I had to do. I'm glad of it. THE WILLOW'S SONG He came down the moist bank Taking hold of a willow tear To keep his balance Sliding to a stop Feet in creek mud Branch in hand. Water with willow leaves. And will he Get across this creek He sits and whips the He peppers the water With a willow branch. Into town and back again To sit alone upon a bank And hear the willow's song? John D. Douglass His eyes now cast Long across the creek. Holding a turkey egg all the way home in my hand. The truck rocking along the curves in the road, the steers in the back stumbling among themselves, the egg, cool and smooth, safely gimbled by my wrist. I could hold that egg forever, using its perfect shape to end my empty handedness. Judith L. Swab http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

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Appalachian Review , Volume 9 (4) – Jan 8, 1981

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

I had to do when I got home. We had to run home, to do what we had to do. During lunch time we had to go pick blackberries and didn't even have that time off. I remember sandspurs. We had to go out to a well to wash, it was a long way and those sandspurs would stick our feet. That was in Eastman, Georgia. I don't regret none of it. Now I know what it is all about. I learnt me what it is all about. I had to do what I had to do. I'm glad of it. THE WILLOW'S SONG He came down the moist bank Taking hold of a willow tear To keep his balance Sliding to a stop Feet in creek mud Branch in hand. Water with willow leaves. And will he Get across this creek He sits and whips the He peppers the water With a willow branch. Into town and back again To sit alone upon a bank And hear the willow's song? John D. Douglass His eyes now cast Long across the creek. Holding a turkey egg all the way home in my hand. The truck rocking along the curves in the road, the steers in the back stumbling among themselves, the egg, cool and smooth, safely gimbled by my wrist. I could hold that egg forever, using its perfect shape to end my empty handedness. Judith L. Swab

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 1981

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