Sol

My favorite time of day
in West Virginia’s
when dawn is breaking
and the first rays of sun
begin to encroach upon the Night.
He bears this invasion with the patience
of a petulant child,
as if leaving were his own idea,
not gamboling, but plodding
across the darkling sky.
He reminds me of a small boy,
who having lost at marbles,
and hearing his mother call him home to dinner
must gather up the remaining stars,
to save for another time.
Stuffing them deep in the pocket
of his muddy-kneed jeans
he departs,
meandering this way and that,
wiping wisps of pink cobwebs
from his dark hair.
A trail of black bats weave
in the shadow of his wake,
as they chase him home.
I see him pout
as he stomps across the mountains,
less than enthusiastic
as his playtime draws to an end.

“Wake up,” calls the cheerful sun.
“Wake up, you feathered fowl!
“Wake up, ye budding trees,
and blooming blossoms!”
“Wake up, all ye
who worship me
and I, Sol,
will grant you warmth
for yet
another day!”