This morning, my son 
has a conversation 
with the sun.
He - a round baby human 
behind cloth and cold window.
She - a golden flame
behind blue earth and snow.
He sings and coos,
while she in her brilliance, 
peek-a boos.
You were born at 7:20 in the morning while a team of silent surgeons stood in the corner of our hospital room, their scalpels sharp and thei...
 
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