The lyrical sun met the day hopefully,
a low trill softly rising like the hum of footsteps
just beginning to fall on the hillside,
forgotten in the night.
Alone, the daylight has a habit of dancing too early,
crimson arrows playfully puncturing our reverie —
when we were content behind the shade
of window curtains and bedsheets.
The idiot insults the sun — star of its own story —
but it won’t ruin another night by bouncing cheerily
into ours. If we can’t move, I’ll march the day
forward and circle back to you.