My humble contribution to World Poetry Day…
Contrary to popular belief
the sun rises and falls on all the land
in its time: the advantages of
a globe not being flat.
Meteorologists smile as they chirp
prayers to Celestia in asphalt temples
doused in snow, and aborted fields
left flat as spiritualists in the dust.
Sunlight looks different mirrored in clouds
than hazed by the shutters of a cardboard box
but it is still there, lapping at the waves
which sing it to sleep each night.
Bugs answer to the sun.
They revel in the eroticism of its
muggy kisses on the water, or when it cries
through grey-streaked embraces.
There is no mountain on which it does not smile
balanced like a ballerina, poised
for an insistent flight above the tree line
out of the shadows memories cast.
It burns with its desires for men
warming their small, dark rock
in the hopes that they will look
yet cursed to see the blindness
in their eyes, the meager shades
which cultivate absences in history:
they speak in whispers of the sun
like to each it is their own dark secret.