As I turn eyes westward
A deeply penetrating orange light,
Tangled in the hilltop trees,
Brings a smile to Heraclitus and me.
There’s fire-light running wild through the universe,
Setting sun, late April Idaho brisk wind,
Hiking trails; time.
Hemingway never forgot his first love, the
Memory of her more beautiful, abstract,
Each passing day.
Maybe our purpose is simple —
To care, contribute, and
Witness the splendor.

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