The Sun
Old man sun
rests his bones
now that noon
has come;
spreads his long
loose-jointed limbs
atop the dome
of sky
and stops to squint
his one good eye
looking down
in disbelief
on everything
and everyone
he makes no
that's not his job;
cannot tell future
from the past;
he does not know
or even care
that ceaseless blur below
define themselves
by the shadows
that he casts
all he knows
is the toughest part
of the daily climb
is done
and he can rest
and take his time
on the long walk
down to darkness
sleep and home



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