Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘sun’

letting the stars name me

after them—

unpronounceable things happen

*

building a throne

out of meadowlark song—

kingdom with no borders

*

holding hands with the sun

wishing it would go

to second base

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

though during midsummer in Finland, the sun will float

above the horizon line for weeks, and each light-soaked

day seems longest. That is what I wish for you—

day after day of unsetting love, whole months when you feel

the most beloved, the most seen, the most embraced

for exactly who you are. I want to send you

giant bouquets of days, all of them the loveliest,

all of them invitations to feel the most wholly yourself.

And on the shorter days when warmth feels distant,

those are the days I want to remind you that it’s normal

to feel unlovable. It’s normal to feel not enough.

It’s normal to wish (unreasonable though it is)

that those days would disappear and every day could be

the best day, the longest light, the day most soaked with love.

Read Full Post »

Tonight I Want to Hold You

the way the hand holds the mug,

the way the mug holds the tea,

the way the tea holds the leaves,

the way the leaves hold the sun,

the way the sun holds everything

the way everything eventually

lets go.

Read Full Post »

Ephemeral Prayer

 

In five billion years, the hydrogen fuel

at the core of the sun will be spent.

Forces of gravity will take over,

compressing the core. The rest of the sun

will expand, vaporizing the earth.

I’ve studied the science, read the texts.

In the meantime, I live in a canyon

with rock walls one-hundred-fifty million years old—

and sometimes, like this morning,

despite rumors of doom,

the forces of gravity take over

and I fall on the floor laughing—

a riotous squealing and braying,

tears leaking, chest heaving,

grateful to big time for this very moment

when I am almost seamlessly joined with my shadow.

It rolls with me on the floor as I hoot and giggle,

praying in the language I know best.

Read Full Post »

Encouragement

 

 

 

Over a month after

the nasturtium seeds were planted,

the last four seedlings begin to push

their pale green elbows above the soil,

as if stretching before they leap.

If they were children, I might chastise them

for taking so long. As it is,

I celebrate them, bend over

to whisper encouragement.

You can do it, I say to the valiant stems.

 

Some mornings, when the sun

has just begun to slip

into my room, I swear

the sun says the same thing to me

as I try to hide beneath the sheets.

You can do it, the light seems to say.

It does not mention, not even once,

all the darkness it has traveled through

just to arrive at this window, this morning,

so that it might warm my elbows,

suggest there is so much more light to be found.

Read Full Post »

Just Before It Melts

 

 

 

Before the sun

has reached

the meadow

on the tip

of a tall blade

of dry grass,

a single

brilliant

sparkle—

see how

it offers

radiance

to anyone

who

will look,

though

that is not

why it

shines.

 

Read Full Post »

Revolution

 

 

 

 

All this time circling

you like a planet,

sustained by your heat

your light, and now

this longing to be

less sphere, more moth—

Read Full Post »

New Approach

 

 

 

On the thirteenth day of gray and winter rain

I remember the story of Amaterasu,

the Japanese goddess of the sun, who,

attacked by her brother, hid in a cave,

and the world was cast in darkness.

 

There have been more attacks

in the last few weeks than the world

can bear to hear. Sometimes we forget

how to cry. Sometimes in anger we forget

how to sing, how to pray. Sometimes,

like the younger brother, Susanoo,

we hurl things at those we love most—

 

perhaps not a monstrous flayed horse,

but blame, judgment, accusations, disgust.

It’s no wonder whatever is light

finds a way to retreat. It’s no wonder

we find ourselves in darkness.

 

In the story, the rest of the gods

try to lure out the sun with roosters

all ordered to crow outside the cave.

 

I, too, have tried to tell myself, others too,

that it is morning when it is not.

Always, I am left with darkness

on my tongue.

 

Then the gods placed a tree

draped in glittering jewels

just outside the closed cave door

and at its center they hung a mirror

so the sun could see her own loveliness.

 

I, too, have tried to put shine

on the tawdry world,

and never did any sparkling thing

make what is ugly more beautiful.

 

It was Amenouzume, another goddess,

who danced with abandon,

who took off her clothes

and twirled and teased

until all the gods in heavens roared with delight,

and, out of curiosity, the sun finally

opened the door to see.

 

Oh world, I am the one who knocks

on the door until my hands bleed,

the one who speaks to the door

and begs and threatens and cajoles

until she is hoarse. None of it

has brought back the light. I am ready

to try dancing and dropping all my layers.

I am ready to try flinging my head back

and letting loose a reckless, untamable laugh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Read Full Post »

This is how

 

 

one lives

when she knows she will die—

she sits beside the river

and puts down the book

and lets the sun

scrawl its hot verses

on every page

of her body.

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

The sun and I made a promise—

to shine with no apology,

to bring warmth,

to give until we have nothing left to give.

In the night, the sun

entered my sleep

and tattooed my body

with golden words.

Now all my limbs

glitter with this vow—

there is so much beauty

for us to make.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: