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Ellen Knew
she was a transient
gliding through the ordinary
storm one day
dropping the next
ear to ground
because the silent generations rustled.
She knew what treasure was:
a campfire shadow on a cliff face
faded ink in a backwards hand
a hairbrush in a tattered velvet box.
Alone at night after teaching
inkwell, oil lamp, shawl
backlit in her cabin’s crooked window
she hand fed the relic scraps
of Columbus’ map
to what already was
her brittle manuscript.
Looking out her window
she saw the invisible
faces of the old ones
waving in the prairie’s mirage
and behind them the unborn
ghosts of us
pausing from our own labor
to search for her
small yellow light on the horizon.
John P. HARN
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