"Talking to the Sun"

A poem to celebrate Mae’s third birthday,
written on the bus ride down to visit--

No one taught me to talk to the sun,
though we came face to face every dawn,
unacknowledged friend with only one name,
one-way conversation at the speed of light,
now my reply, late, but long before never:
Hello, you big stare of fire, kiss of whither
this morning through the mussed bus window,
you mist-melting flare at last night’s late frost,
you shape-shifter of pear and apple trees,
igniting white torches and bonfires that burn
year after year whether people are near or not,
your hot breath on the rivers, cooking up
the smoke that cloaks our way right now,
souvenir of primordial soup from where
we all came, oh, yes, familiar face, staring in
at my neighbors reading about pedicures,
filling out computer forms for truckers, re-
wrapping hair from night to white-clouded
skyblue scarf. In ten minutes we get off
and you’ll lick us all over like newborns,
your tongue on our eyes and mouths, that morning
kiss sparkles in the grass like the dew of uncounted
stars, you just one, but ours, known enough to talk to.

Minnie Bruce Pratt

Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivs
Creative Commons 2010