This is a story of simple geometry:
The angle of the earth to sun, light fracturing
this horizon into shifting hues along
the final lapping of the waves.
The angle of an old man ankle deep in the sea
to a son tripping along the hard damp edge
to a grandson, legs churning a softer, forgiving sand.
Measure the old man:
Reaching, reaching to catch this pink disc,
this circle wobbling to the earth beyond finger tips,
yet still he has the will to lift it.
Flinging it in a brittle arc
to his son with the faint hope
his boy will be there in time.
Calculate the son:
Running to compensate
for the errant toss
of his father.
Taking care in throwing to his own son
so that it is always just within his reach
pushing him a little farther with each toss.
Factor in the child:
Intent only on that pink disc
hovering hovering hovering
until it drops into his grasp.
Then laughing spinning and tossing
just out of reach of that very old man
and finally dashing to snatch it from the trembling hand.
The area of a triangle equals half the product of a base and the height to that base:
The area of their triangle is now filled by this sand
that has replaced the life
of a woman…
Wife to mother to baba
mother to baba to wife
baba to wife to mother.
Do parallel lines fly on forever?
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