I recall this poem's inception in 1999. It was one of those mornings in the juncture between witer and spring. The nights were still frosty but when the sun rose in the morning it was bright and warm. It was that crux point between the true old year and the new (which is why the new year for Romans began in March) and the new year for the ancient Celts began in November (before the inception of Winter). The juncture between the old year and the new is echoed in the discourse between the parent and the child. Each level of existence echoing the other.
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