A Thread Of Being
S Sandra Fowler
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How well you speak the language of the rain.
Your mood plays back to me on dusk's blue horn.
Light is unstable as a candleflame,
A thread of being subject to the wind.
Here at the nadir of the failing sun,
Warmth has the substance of October smoke.
It swirls around me with the dying leaves,
Makes song a shadow of more worth than breath.
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