Poem: Midas Sun

 

Midas Sun

 

it is tired of being so bright

that no one can see its face;

of turning sticks into emeralds;

wasting coins on the sea.

 

it wants

to catch the moon, for once.

to touch with invisible fingers

and have someone touch back.

 

it seeks but one rose in its image,

less crimson,

and needs a lover to decode

the colors it strews across Saturn.

 

it wants darkness

to be more more hug, less rabbit;

for eyes to expand,

instead of flee.

 

it tires of shawls of fog,

craves a rain of profligate prisms,

the kind that saturate soil

in fertile bliss.

 

The Sun

 

it understands

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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