You told me about the sun.
Great and grand and furious,
flaming hydrogen at the centre of our orbit,
hissing, storming,
spitting neutrinos in great clouds set to eat Earth alive
one hundred thousand times over.
An immense bomb, ticking away
millennia, awaiting supernova.
This is not the sun I know.
The sun I know raises her gentle head each morning
to plant warm, soft, butterfly kisses on my cheeks
and to flutter her light against my eyelids.
The sun I know drapes her light in soft squares on the floor by the window,
so the cat might curl up and bask in her heat.
The sun I know traces her slender fingers along my back
on chilly autumn days when the wind blows cold.
She melts the frost on the grass each morning,
and coaxes the trees higher,
higher, as they reach to grasp her
with their branches.
The sun I know sparkles off the snow,
dazzlingly crystalline through my squinting eyes.
The sun I know throws her habitual fit upon ducking below the horizon,
spattering red and pink and gold in broad, senseless brushstrokes
and setting the sky alight in her frustration.
The sun I know knows me back,
for she sits high in the sky each day
and follows me through the car window.
The sun I know is gentle––
I think you might have a bit of the sun I know in you.
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