The Language of the Sun

Had to use language, men, delicate, heavy, dead, tomorrow, whisper, cascade.

In the greenest season
her language is measured in
heat and warmth,
in light and luminescence;
her words are heavy and bear down
upon brow and back alike;
we cower in the face of her discourse
but we will not hide:
we cannot.

In the whitest season,
her speech is but a whisper
and her expression is delicate and soft;
we yearn for the warmth of her breath,
the timbre of her tone on the curve of the cheek;
we rise in assembly for her oration;
but she guards her words,
and we accept what is given.

And even in the space of time between
green and white
when the colors are new
or when they are dead
still she speaks:
her voice will cascade from the sky
as rays and beams of brilliance
and we, mere men that we are,
we will heed her words
enamored of her language,
today, tomorrow,
always.