Posts Tagged ‘sun’





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.

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Just Before It Melts




Before the sun

has reached

the meadow

on the tip

of a tall blade

of dry grass,

a single



see how

it offers


to anyone


will look,


that is not

why it



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All this time circling

you like a planet,

sustained by your heat

your light, and now

this longing to be

less sphere, more moth—

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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.









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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.

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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.

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Right Here Over the Rainbow

Almost every heart
we know
is wounded—

all the more reason
to learn the language the sun speaks
when it touches the meadow in spring,

and then speak
like that
to each other.

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I was nodding, smiling,
saying mmm hmmm

whenever she paused.
She went on. I nodded.

She went on. And on.
The sun came in the window

and reminded me of the way
you said that when you made

our bed this morning, later
than usual, you noticed

how our bed bathes in the sun
all day when we are not at home,

and how by night we sleep
in the accumulated light.

You know, she said.
Mmm hmm, I said. I know.

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Somewhere in Cygnus

Just before sleep,
my son says he heard
about a solar system

with three suns.
I try to imagine
the gravity of it,

wonder how
it might change
our ideas of god

not to mention love
if we, too, looked up
and saw all that light.

check it out here:

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Haiku to Prometheus

I too, stole fire.
I, too, waited daily
for the eagle.


Just one piece of sun.
That’s all I wanted. After all
everything is broken.


It did not look
like a gift, the devouring
from the inside out.


Only clay after all.
But we’re more than that.
Ask my liver.


It never once
looked over its shoulder.
Brown wings blocked the sun.


I’d almost say
I came to like it. Could you


Isn’t it funny
I can’t remember now
the color of the eyes.


Tonight so full
the moon. It can be so lovely,

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