Conversation with the Sun in February
Sitting in a chair facing winter sun,
I will not ask Why or How long
will it take to heal? I will only say,
Joy. Small sounds like Ahhhh and Ohhhh
escape without thought. My eyes
are slits. After winter’s gray and black,
the blast of gold light is shocking.
Behind closed lids, sun paints red,
shapes of green amoebas swim.
My bald head is warm beneath a purple
wool hat, as are the shins of my legs
where sun penetrates denim. Slumping
further, I give in. Bed can wait. Even
the uppers of my Birkenstocks are toasty.
Convalescence is so slow. My energy
comes in small packets. How do you
burn across space to bless me?