Conversation with the Sun in February

by Laura L. Snyder

Share this:
  • Email

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?


Issue 12 contents