Poem: Midas Sun

Here's an unusual poem that was published long ago, in my early days, in a journal called Words of Wisdom (now defunct).

It might be about the loneliness of god.

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Midas Sun

the sun is tired of being so bright
no one can see its face,
of turning sticks into emeralds
and wasting coins on the sea.
for once, it wants to catch the moon,
to touch with invisible fingers
and have someone touch back.
it wants more roses in its image,
less crimson, and hopes that someday
a priestess will decode
the glistens it strews across Neptune.

it wants darkness to behave
more like a hug than a rabbit,
for eyes to expand instead of flee.
it’s been wrapped too often in fog,
only briefly in prisms.
it craves profligate rain,
the sort that squanders arias
on sated ground.

the sun knows
it’s the opposite of Midas;
like that cursed king,
it creates too perfectly.
it is gold that gives life with touch;
gold unable to communicate;
that must watch its children wander off,
oblivious to the source of their stride.