Island Sun

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There is magic
The magic of sun-come.
If you awake at the time
When the sky is still as dark as the sea
But the sun
Is peeping through
Like bits of seaweed floating on the surface,
You can see it
If you are patient and wait.
Not the smallest hermit crab
Is out at that time,
Nor does any human stir from their hut.
All is silent and still,
As if the island is
holding its breath
While waiting for the sun.
When the sun does come,
It is rosy pink,
The color of the inside
Of a sea shell.
Sometimes
It has bright red streaks,
Or violet,
And sometimes
The color of a ripe mango.
And then
There is a burst of light,
And the sun appears,
Blazing hot like the cook-fire
On which sweet fish is fried.
And I say to myself,
Aren't I lucky,

To know the magic of sun-come.





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