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I will take up weaving I will mend the old blankets that lie now in sweet cedar chests. I will take up patience, like quilting, I will see the binding-together of days. I will take up hunting, and walk the same ground, slowly, again, and wearing myself more lightly, and what was yellow will green, and what was green will redden with gladness. I will take up the hollow heart of a reed, bend it in water, dry it in the sun, to a basket so supple and strong that walking with it shouldered the weather will pour in, and I'll grow seedlings as if they were wings, put out cows and blackbirds and frogs, and chorus madly the entire oncoming dusk.

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