The sun stays in its position at the center of our solar system. Sun rays flash on bedroom windows, dew in the grass, and a siren wails. The big bright star appears to rise and set, and rise and set, and it jeers at our ignorant traditions. (It’s really us who rise and set). And we love, and we share, and we clash, love again. Blustery winds blow from the east to the other side of a conundrum, where a leaf flutters down its mother, twisting this way and that in its lazy, slothful descent. We wake and the Earth rotates on its axis, spitting fire in the hearths and hearts of lovers. We are given 24 hours to decide, or is it 6?

 Honey glazed fingers run through the gusty winds on long drives, and big dreams die in their wake. We are given the privilege of oblivion, god I love this place. Why else are we here if not to live with such a cavernous, unreasonable passion for things? At noon the stars grow impatient. 

“You still have a lot of time to make yourself whole again,” crowed the Sun. 

“Please,” chaffed the Moon, “I never exhaust my element of surprise.”

New clothes, laughing until your stomach hurts. Waking up, realizing you have hours left to sleep. You hear the rocks cry out in their silence, yet sirens sound in between trenches of furious drivers. A 1995 Flint Model, a staccato, muffled roar. Still here? The sun begins to take a step back as the leaves lull themselves to sleep. Symphonies of a thousand constellations are awakened, and the planets halt their spin around the sun. O’ the sun, oaf of a fellow, rising with rousing possibilities.

And yet the moon exists

To remind us

That things

Must end

To Begin 

Again.