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The arc of light
outside her window
quiet as thought
or a white jacket
becomes bread
with a patina
And it is bread
for birds and fish
coming to feed
in the noon hours
when the small lights
of nibbling creatures
signal the gliding or glubbing
into gardens and islands
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Then the woman
finds herself drawn
by the humor of shadows
the broken green
of water lilies
the temperature of skin
And bread on her table
becomes hands
light becomes
an urn -- a vessel --
a Joseph's coat
with many moon circles
We wonder as she
goes about her house
in magic garments
dancing and making things
how she does this
how God helps her do this
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The question
a paper penny
on the tongue
has no memory
but a shape
And we wait
to find a chant
with the deep grass
for our bread
for our fish
for our birds
and for this woman
flying and swimming
exploding in blessings
still delicate as a seed.
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