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 This air is flooded with her.
I am a boy again, and my mother and I lie on wet grass, laughing.
She startles, turns to marigolds at my side, saying beautiful, and I can see the red there is in them.
When she would fall into her thoughts, we'd look for what distracted her from us.
My mother's gone again as suddenly as ever and, seven months after the funeral, I go dancing.
I am becoming grateful.
Breathing, thinking, marigolds.

by George Herbert
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