flowers in saffron, their faces to the sun - rivals in brightness
We are always eight minutes to midnight,
saved only by that blazing fire, the sun.
Everything dark is thrown into its light,
exposed at speeds that cannot be outrun.
Its warmth still radiates on darkest night.
When covers have been pulled up to the cheek,
its heat still lingers, staving off frostbite,
and trickling drops under the frozen creek.
When sands are burning under tender feet,
and sweat is dripping from one’s flesh and hair,
and even when we curse the brutal heat,
we still prefer that you remain right there.
You’ve got just five billion years left to fire,
I hope someone’ll be sad when you expire.
An hour of light per day
squeezed between those broad shoulders.
One hour of sunlight —
in the good seasons,
when there was sun.
The villagers’ days pivoted on that hour.
Whatever is the opposite of a siesta, they lived it.
an hour of frenetic love…
of the outdoors
of the sun
of love, itself.
Outsiders found the place dismal & gloomy,
but they never loved the sun
like those villagers love the sun.
people stagger down to sunrise beach,
like a zombie horde,
bed creases still fading
in the literal sense —
not the kind seeking some shade of bronze
and what better to honor?
should the sun fail to shine
we’re eight minutes from our midnight
should it disappear altogether
we would hurl away,
an ice block
to be slung about by gravitational fields
or to simply careen into some other
unsuspecting block of ice or iron
except for vents from our molten core
all energy begins in that solar furnace
all green leaves
all creatures who eat the green leaves
all the creatures who eat the creatures who eat the green leaves
all fired by that grand fusion