Sunday, September 13, 2015

Light Consciousness

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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