The sun has not risen for a few days. There is something inherently melancholic about this fact. Oh, yes, it has come up each day. I just have not seen it behind this thick layer of cloud cover. Today the clouds are pouring rain in a steady stream. Yes, I know this is why the Pacific Northwest is so lovely and green and lush. This is why the hop vines are trailing up and over the house, why the tomato plants are growing leaps and bounds every day. But THE SUN. I want the sun, I want it more than words can express. I cannot will the sun here, not with all of my might. I crave you, Dear Sun. Hear my cry.
The Sun
Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
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