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68 WA B I A N D S A B I We rub our hands over the bench along the trail to feel what weather has worn, how storms have polished the pine wood— she flows inside of me like a spring. Other times, she becomes the wind in the trees, the trailing voices of geese. On those mornings, I watch the light rise in her to rekindle her face— the way she looked, that Sunday, across the wildflower meadow at Northwest Park: Deptford pink, black-eyed Susan, the open white parasols of Queen Anne’s lace. I know when I become as obdurate as stone, the Christ in me breaks the stone in two, and I become a fountain pouring out of the cleaved rock. ...

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