That sun

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.

A loud sunrise

The sun screams from behind
darkened clouds –
a crescendo of deep oranges
bustling just over the horizon.

A din of shaggy clouds hang
higher, standing with a clamor
before the blues of another day
waking up with fresh eyes

and stale breath. We inhale
the new day – the tumult
from another revolution
erupting to wake us, wiping

the night from our eyes –
and blinking, step into the light.