Sun

The essential nature of sunlight is a
wonderment
matrix
enigma
challenging what I know.
This simple thing is not so simple.
The prism divides it
and so do the slats of my window blinds
and also it is parsed by my moods.

And it is not just one thing, you know.
It is muted or glaring,
warm or chill,
yellow or red or orange or brown.
It is cheerful with flowers,
annoying while reading,
unwelcome when I bury my mother on a sunny day.

Today I am chatting with the sun.
Chatting up the sun.
Hanging out in dialog with the sun.

Do I give offense to you, here in the open field,
my dialog seemingly the distracted rant of ill people
talking to you, talking to themselves, talking to an object, talking to no one?

There are things you are not allowed to seeā€¦.
This daffodil is telling me its Spring is informed by this sunshine.
This ray is telling me its Spring is heralded by this flower.

They are talking
talking
and I am answering in my way:
You are not included.
When it comes to me and the sun,
you simply are not to be involved.

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