The Sun in early December,
soon after breakfast, dangles
between the hills like a smooth
gold pendant pressed to the pink chest
of morning, as if she were the reflection
of herself and not the origination of reflection
and of light. A sight not of metal, nor moon, nor water,
but fire upon fire upon fire upon fire...
Oh what a sweet and simple revelation:
this realization that the origin of creation
lights my every day! Oh how I'd like to be
as beautiful, as useful, as meaningful
as the Sun in early December.