New Feet Poem by Carl Sandburg

New Feet



EMPTY battlefields keep their phantoms.
Grass crawls over old gun wheels
And a nodding Canada thistle flings a purple
Into the summer's southwest wind,
Wrapping a root in the rust of a bayonet,
Reaching a blossom in rust of shrapnel.

Monday, January 27, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: purple,summer,wind
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