Tho I do not politically identify with a nation, I do truly confess, culturally, I easily identify as Canadian. The more I study of the cultural movement that is marked by the rugged honest yet gentle massacre that is, Canadian art & literature, the more I easily see, both my aboriginal & white blood, warring it out within me. I am content, very much, to say, I am Canadian. I am no collection of ordinary flowers.I have bloomed harsh, full of Arctic wind. I have an arrow head driven through my skull & I slur in an accent brewed from a wild cherry. Glaciers slide through my veins, dark and foreboding; yet, I shine with the lingering scream of the midnight sun. I’m a different organism entirely, from those sweet flowers that lace delicately along your garden side. Permafrost has vined up my heart, tight; see them scroll and bloom; Arctic flowers, icy enough to catch and hold, your every breath. The granite bedrock and slicing Rockies; the hours, surviving, the pits of Winter, black and terrifying, returning, to crack, bright and wide and wild!I have been scalped and still, see, my hair, long and braided and proud and sweetly bold. I will make you smile wide; but still, you will search my eyes, wondering, if I am real, or the once fable faery of The North.
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