Moulding
A moving
Flooding honeysuckle nectar of voice
Echoing in the parasail of wind, white or so to the naked eye.
Yet the eye does not see it.
The breath of light's quivering flame, liquid and undentable.
May the fire not be weak.
She cuts with a wind like water.
Cuspate yet weaving gasp of tremulous gift.
A gift you were always given.
She is
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