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Words are breath tracks speaking to those who have already left their
on our lives.
These words whisper softly from just behind the footprints of those
first imagined this house.
Because so many of those who imagined this house were women it
I look upon the journey you must have taken from the moment of
this moment when our breath tracks speak to honour you.
I picture the endless nights of huddling over coffee, dreaming up the
knocking down obstacle after obstacle.
I listen to the memories of phone calls to friends, to neighbours, to
officials, even to
foes, to make
This poem was originally published in Lee Maracle, Bent Box, Penticton, BC: Theytus Books, 2000, pp.127–28. It is reproduced by kind permission of the author. ↑