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It is the morning after having been here exactly one full revolution of the earth around our sun.

I

walkAs the shimmering Saturday sun straddles its

Own silhouetted form across leaves

That will soon turn on themselves

And meet their demise for a season.

At the corner, a man pushes a tiny stroller.

His supposed daughter makes cooing noises, 

As she points to the sky. Unintelligible noise other than 

To a loving father, and assuringly, God.

The dad, who pushes the small rolling vessel

Of adventure and spongy intrigue using only the index and pinky finger of his left hand, simply responds “How do you know?” 

Love, I suppose. Love is memory, expression, sacrifice, compromise, foundational security, trust, communication, and the timepiece of the universe. When we are ready, it will respond.

About SIDEWAYS EIGHT

Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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