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The Fallby Mary LambertFall is here again and out of themaw 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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