I remember the Sun
like I remember your father.
Just doing his job, five
billion years with the same company.
When it was time to turn on the lights,
you didn't argue with him. You
didn't beg for the snooze button.
You got your ass out of bed
and hustled. It was pointless to argue
with the man who controlled your hours.
Your father had a flashy side,
kept a stylish haircut and a shiny car
that he washed every weekend.
When he felt benevolent,
he was the nicest guy in the world,
but if you caught him in a foul mood,
he was a tyrant, smoldering long past bedtime.
Sometimes when you sat with him,
the temperature was perfect,
neither hot nor cold. He surprised you
with another slice of pie, as he
praised your brilliance. You begged
for his eternal company, and
waited patiently for his return.
No one else's warmth
could ease your bones to sleep,
as you reclined beside the water.
No one else could speak
the language of dawn and nightfall.
Some day you'll learn
to illuminate the beam
and will have no need of your father.
The lantern burns without apology
in a room of your own design.
It may take a thousand years for you
to comprehend, but when you do
your flame will eclipse the Sun,
and your untrained wings will beat
with fierce joy against the sky.