It’s not just the glaring sun
that bothers, it is the
confused metaphor; the sadness
of blue and the heaven above of blue.
When the sun is a cool meadow
or gently cast over
suburban houses and the
trees cradle the moist white
air it could be the floor
of saints, this ceiling above.
And when it tires you like
a job or a jog, hitting a wall
when you have just gotten ahead.
That is the self-recriminating
feeling, we ask, “How could I
criticise the sun in summer,
in the Northern Hemisphere?”
I think no one ever felt blue
and it’s just a consolation
for never loving anything
about earth all the time.
From the self-published book of poetry, “Tree Man: A Creation of us All” (2001).
kaleidoscopeonline.ca 