no clamor of mine will jar the sleep-mazed earth from its languor, unfurling blade by blade beneath this tenuous sun, our most patient of sentries. not today. hands cupped; a shrine for frailest joy, while it alights. growth carbonates the air. delight scribbles frissons within body and upon/amid/atop Self, as first sips, then draughts are welcomed home.
and that this whole “you don’t get to sleep past sunrise” routine is its way of communicating that i either need to do more or learn to get by with less. it would be just like me to drive myself to the trail with the switch and spur of sleepiness rather than coming up with something to play carrot. let’s not even talk about how my immediate need to establish a reason for these goings-on is *really* what’s just like me. i do love a Why…
All this time
The Sun never says to the Earth,
“You owe me.”
With a love like that,
It lights the whole sky.
There is a project for the sun. The sun
Must bear no name, gold flourisher, but be
In the difficulty of what it is to be.
Wallace Stevens, “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction”
Every star may be a sun to someone.
my mother and i are known more for our long-winded arguments and power struggles than we are for token gestures, but i love her below (above?) all that. she’s not one for presents, but the sun just peeked out from behind the sullen amalgam of cloud and fog, and my bike deserves to be used for its intended purpose. as do we all, in the end.
and my grandmother? i missed her birthday dinner in favor of singing in my school choir’s spring concert, and she is always surprised and delighted by spontaneous expressions of love and gratitude. i wholly resemble her in this respect, and this is all i need do to light up her entire week. i’m happy to oblige.