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The weather turns off cold; my instincts go domestic. For days I smell of onion

and homemade pumpkin soup. A woman, everything

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comes down to love.

Sewing for my child

I think how even thread Becomes a parent,

stitching up the woolen halves Of cloth into a whole.

Outside the rain is beating

a mat of yellow leaves; I don't believe

in endings.

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