Though it burns, it also shines.

Sunlight is Poetry that Writes Itself

There is sunlight, bright in rooms across curves of the globe, filling doorways, pouring through windows, streaking against buildings, steaming off horse backs of chestnut bays, and the morning pasture grasses they graze. It crosses sideways along sidewalks, faces, arms and legs, ship decks, car wrecks and make-shift tents of too-many homeless lives. Without it we all would soon die, as all growing things need the light.

But there is sunlight, yellow, orange, purple and red, one hundred and eighty degrees spread along the line where ocean turns sky. It glitters in moving waters, rushes headlong into showers, a sweeping arc of colors, neon streaks of painted air in perfect half-circles that disappear — before we can look long enough to finish our wish.

And there is this: sunlight on the moon, sometimes yellow or cold blue, or red as the smoke stretching above and through the flame.

Yet this same sunlight bursts over working hands that bring from the soil more life, the gardens that provide what we eat from what they grow, and the magnificently-ravishing flowers that feed the soul.

August 9, 2020 ~~ by Diana J. Legun