you
when the sun rises
my hands will grab it by
the shoulders, shaking it awake
one more time.
for meals i will feed it the soft breaths
of its children, little green arms that sway
with mother nature’s every sigh.
when it is ready i will carry it through the fields
to show it its worth, gesturing to
the stretching trees, the blushing flowers,
the endless life
which springs forth;
give it crisp water from the rivers to drink
so it remembers to be humble
in times where its power rings too strong,
when mother nature must run to cradle
the little green arms turned yellow with
too much of its gaze.
if the sun feels sorrow, i will
wipe its tears with the handkerchief
of the clouds, soft cotton that leaves
little pieces on the sun even afterwards,
softening the glow of its sparkling sad eyes.
the sun will tire, maybe
complain of its tasks,
perhaps lament its inability to see
the wondrous world of night and its
surreal, starry terrain.
again i will wipe its tears,
this time with a napkin made with
blades of grass once weaved together by
a bored mother nature sitting cross-legged
in a plain of dead flowers
forgetting her duties and playing with the weeds--
a treasure found floating alone in a lonely river.
when the sun contemplates the dangerous idea
of ends and no more beginnings i will
hold its hands and
bring it to a beautiful corner of the earth,
a place which borders reality and
the edges of dreams.
we will sit together
side by side
and i will hide
my burned hands behind my back
(and whisper into your soft,
blazing fire, tasting burnt skin
and sweet pain: “this is
you”) to watch the colors of the sky bloom
from soul-sucking navy blue to a passionate fuchsia
to a distant yellow as we watch you
sink lower into the horizon,
creating breathtaking beauty in your temporary goodbye
and a promise to return tomorrow.