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by Margaret Kay Once when the syinga bush was white with flowers, he unpinned the tight brown knot of her hair and loosening the skirt that swept the floor removed the cameo brooch she wore and took her standing there. Now, the winter sun sets red and creeps low across the floor. A cold wind blows. She sits in her straight-back chair. Along the shore, grey lichen hang from limbs of spruce trees. Beside the rim of sea, the cold sand waits. She combs her hair straight back and wears her shawl with the palm-leaf border, where her cameo brooch is always straight.
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