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Big Bang

It was not
a single event,
a reference point
way, way back,
beginning of time.
When the artist stands
before a blank canvas,
the brushstroke
blooming a first kiss;
when the writer or poet
sits before a blank page,
the pen or pencil beginning
to dance upon the stage;
when the physicist ponders,
theorizes that or this,
multiple theories being
kiss after kiss,
the Love that was, that is, will be,
the Love that burst forth
and was before the beginning –
all’s transformed,
all recreated,
an idea, a theory rippling
within now,
rippling infinitely back…

Like a fine novel or poem
written by a son or daughter
for his or her father
about the father
which he imbibes –
it transforms him,
transforms his understanding
of what it means to be a father,
what a father could be and do.
Through a son, a daughter
a father’s created, recreated too.

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