Poem: Midas Sun

 

Midas Sun

 

the Sun is tired of being so bright

that no one can see its face;

of turning sticks into emeralds

and wasting coins on the sea.

 

it wants

to catch the moon for once.

to touch with its warm invisible fingers

and have someone touch back.

 

it seeks but one rose in its image,

less crimson more generous,

and needs but one lover to decode

the colors it strews across Saturn.

 

it wants darkness

to be more more hug and less rabbit;

for eyes to expand

instead of close up and flee.

 

the Sun, it tires of shawls of fog,

craves a rain of profligate prisms,

the sort that saturate soil

with the fertility bliss.

 

the Sun ... 

it knows

 it is the opposite of Midas;

though like that cursed king,

it creates too perfectly:

 

it is gold that gives life with touch,

gold unable to speak,

gold that must watch its children wander off,

oblivious to the source of their stride.

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