The light of every sun is
but a glimmer of the Sun
that doth never rise or set,
just each thing, its sacred spark . . .
like the bug I marked this morn
crawling cross the office floor.
I placed the wee critter down
on the front porch en route to
the yard for Sunday’s paper,
so on the return I had
to check my soles to see if
I’d stepped on it unawares.
Nothing there, this did play out
a scene the previous night
when another spark of that
Sun had landed on my chest
to rest and, startled, I did
with forefinger smite the mite.
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