The sun managed to rise this morning
But without glory, struggling.
Like a hung-over drunk
He lit things up here and there
A gesture without conviction.
He is true to form this Spring Sun,
Weak, absent, late for work when he shows up…
In short he doesn’t fail to disappoint.
He makes me yearn for the Winter sun
Who painted the sky in bold, vivid strokes
Who defied the cold, the wee hours
And splashed gold and copper
On my parasol pines.