The Sun

The sun has fallen asleep.
You urge it to get up. “Get up!” you shout.
It does not listen.

The sun must arise and shine for us.
The verdant earth is turning pale.
The mountains are turning white.
The winds are growing tired.
The clouds are sweeping specks of light from the sky.
And still the sun will not move.

Lovers will grow tired,
uninspired by the moon.
Business will lose its numbers
in the dark.
The sun must get up.

You tell the sun how much
we depend on it. It lies
where it has fallen.
You tell it you love it.
It looks up.

You tell it its rays
are like fine strands of hair.
It jumps into a tangled mass
of green vines, and its white blood
pulses.

You tell it it is young and desirable.
Startled, it leaps above your city.
You say you want to be friends.
It grows until you are blinded.
It reaches for you
with a tendril of fire,
which refreshes the wind, and the wind
lifts the sun into the clouds.
The clouds grow warm and full.
They bounce the sun into the sky.

Lovers see the moon again.
Their affections swell.
The sun drifts into space.
There is enough light.
The world is happy.

You drift into sleep. Suddenly,
someone is urging you to wake up.
You pay no attention. In your dream
you are walking an incandescent road,
swinging your arms of fire.