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The Sun Is My Shadow

My vermilion ocean eyes surge and ebb
like you in your final days.

Your seeds have sprouted

during a southern winter, unseasonably bitter,
as the barren meadows
of unimportance germinate emerald carpets.

I feel your maternal breath every time the wind blows

and watch you soar, stretching your wings,
racing the parasailers,
doing what you used to sing along to
when your favorite song played.

I see you in the majestic palm,
waving to me
in your flowing foliage gown.

Don't cease fond nature,
I know what angels wear.

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