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(Poem by Wendy Howe ) On cold, silver days when the sky matches the tea service of a woman's house, he appears crowning the windowsill. His head and body glisten with the sea's morning chill, a bird who carries the shiver of peace in his wings and bids it to tremble in a daughter's hand as she looks out, pointing homeward. There, the sun burns quickly, a match flame searing the skyline and leaving dusk to smolder over trees and minarets, tent poles and the chant of veiled women as they mourn, weaving rugs that warm the scarred feet of Palestine. To know more about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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