The sun is soft this year.

It sits so still above the carpet of the clouds,
Bashful and modest
For its own resplendence.

How I understand Icarus,
And his moth-like lust for
Its motherly warmth.

How I wish to slip beneath its surface
And to find myself bathed in
Life and light.

How I would forgo the steel of the sea
And the cold blue of the sky
To return to the star that birthed me

And all of my love for words.