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Strawberry Epiphany

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When they sleep, it’s like hearing a piano play melodic velvet notes.
it’s as if soft moss is tracing it’s way over your skin.
or like a drink of the coldest water at your thirstiest.
seeing them eat strawberries and that sight becomes art,
becomes an epiphany,
a swan song.
see them gaze at the redness of it,
this makes strawberries suddenly holy.
holy is the sacred,
many people claim to know the way,
many of them men.
but men, stop your ego from talking,
sit by my side for a moment in time
watch a child of golden hair,
breathe up, breathe down,
eat a strawberry in ecstasy,
look at you,
and,
with that very look,
tug upon that never gone umbilical cord threading you,
mothersonmotherson,
together forever.
sit and see,
see the way of,
children,
for they are what holy is.

Photo courtesy of SATORI

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