The sun, a god,
warms the elect,
shining on first man,
moving him to deeds of
grace and strength and
beauty.
Yellow-white ball
on blue sky,
suspended above us,
arching over us
like arms raised
in a blessing.
The hot desert,
the woman he enters,
she brings out life
in dry, spare births
of great vitality.
The sun, the fulcrum
on which all turns and moves,
ancient keeper of time
imbuing flesh and streaming blood
and bone with the
florescence of life itself.
Then gray and grayer sky
draping the sun,
a death shroud.
Hanging in the sky
in black crepe
to signify a loss.
And I recoil,
an insect balling up,
turning away from this
cold and disgrace.
A troubled sleep
awaiting the redemption
from spring’s fingers,
yellow and stroking.
