The sun will not be with us
much longer. The earth turns
our faces towards the suspended
moon—its distance, proof
of how bound we are to molten core.
The sun stays and we move,
a planetary revolution, and yet
the sun seems to betray our longing
for light and warmth.
We believe ourselves abandoned.
How simple is faith when sun
colors the horizon, moves
across the expanse, measuring
the hours and each breath.
What sorrow is faith, when even
the moon and stars fail to appear,
and we are exiled to night,
the broadcloth of our grief.
Our puny effort
to bend the light,
to rend the darkness.
Our belief in the body’s discipline and not
the perfection of corpuscles
we neither created nor deserved.
How small we are,
How futile our lives, grieving
the sun, when tomorrow
it will rise.
© Ami Mattison
Flickr photo courtesy of Boris SV