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The Fall

by Mary Lambert
Fall is here again and out of the
maw of summer, I rebirth myself.
Like afterbirth, my scabrous places
show themselves.

What is this, who is this? To review
the labyrinths of ironies
with causes underground,
tangled, clogged with acid soil.
Cries come and twists of pain
not known in spring
or summer.

Rebirth. To learn to walk one
more time
on the spiral of life,
to walk upright, noble.

As the sun warms me,
I gather gold, swab off my afterbirth
and
focus.



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