Dear Sun

I rolled to the hill where the wild grass grows,

Wheels catching soft in the summer’s clothes.

No hand pushed me, no one came —

Just me, and you, and the evening flame.

You watched, like always, from your high-up place,

Gold dripping slow on my hollow face.

I asked, “Do you burn for people like me?”

You said, “Little one, I burn so you see.”

See what? I wondered — the sky, or the pain?

The way breath goes like a windowpane?

The birds that sing like they’ve never cried?

The tree that dances though its roots have died?

The wind held quiet as I spoke to the light.

“You never leave. That must be nice.”

You winked behind a veil of cloud —

A soft reply, not said aloud.

I said, “They left. All of them did.”

And the sun just leaned on the blue and hid.

But not for long. It came back through.

“I’ve never left. I burn for you.”

I coughed a prayer into my sleeve.

A warm goodbye I could believe.

And as the stillness settled in,

The world no longer turned within.

The sky bowed low, a hush so wide,

And in that silence, something replied.

“Get up,” said the sun, with a voice like gold,

“Your legs remember what they were told.”

And I — no longer curled and thin —

Rose like fire and walked again.