Three times my life has opened.Once, into darkness and rain.Once, into what the body carries at all times within it andstarts to remember each time it enters the act of love.Once, to the fire that holds all.These three were not different.You will recognize what I am saying or you will not.But outside my window all day a maple has stepped fromher leaves like a woman in love with winter, droppingthe colored silks.Neither are we different in what we know.There is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slipof light stays, like a scrap of unreadable paper left onthe floor, or the one red leaf the snow releases in March.
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