I hesitate. What is the truth?
Every day, I blaze a new starseen, sunshadowed path on earth -- a journey without Presbyterian plan that
scribbles a figure eight.
An analemma of my wandering might
resemble that of the sun's,
which written (though not etched) in the sky every hour
will describe infinity.
It's noon by watch and town clock,
but the sun won't say that:
It's . . . earlier . . . or later.
The sun stays where it is, scorched and burning. It is we who move --
We heretics who do not have to burn, at least not for truth about the earth and the sun.
This analemmic path -- caused by the earth's tilted axis and her elliptical orbit around the sun -- makes me think I should try harder
to be where I ought,
to act as I should,
to weave truth into truth, love into love,
and simpleness with complexity.
You might say this is my own Equation of Time.