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 warm visible fingers

and have someone touch back.

 

it seeks a rose in its image,

less crimson, more generous.

it wants a single lover to decode

the colors gifts to the rings 

of Saturn.

 

it wants darkness

to be more hug, less rabbit.

for eyes to expand

instead of close up and flee.

 

the Sun 

it tires of shawls of fog.

craves profligate prisms of rain.

craves to saturate the soil

with fertility and bliss.

 

the Sun ... 

it knows

 it is the opposite of Midas.

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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