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Perhaps, at last, we celebrate life by getting up in the morning, watering the philodendron, feeding the dogs. We listen to “The Magic Flute,” song sparrow in the juniper, watch robins build nests in the Cornelian cherry, taste summer’s plums. We thrive holding newborns up to the light, laying brittle bones to rest, like clematis climbing the honeylocust after cold winters, burials. Strong, stalwart stars-- lavender, wine, gold, bursting through dark tombs from which we rise become song.