Vol 8, Num 15 :: 2009.07.17 — 2009.07.30
I know this man.
Joy strikes tears from his eyes;
Mossy pools that well up and spill over
As stones skim across.
There isn’t much that he misses:
Tracks in the snow,
Misplaced dishes,
Lights in the ever changing sky.
His upward gaze
Lifts mine.
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