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28 A C C O M PA N I M E N T Not unlike the yellow birch leaf we saw suspended above the edge of the trail by a thread of a spider’s web in autumn rain on Mount Toby, what remains of us in the warmth of spring sunlight in a meadow in Conway is still held in abeyance above bedstraw and meadow grass. I have thought of you often this morning. You don’t know this. And you don’t need me to tell you, but I need you to know that you accompany me into the world like a rose opening. ...

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