How could one ever speak of the sun dipping? How could something so grand slip into

something so small, so much less than it,

sharing its warmth with a world it can’t touch?



A starstruck deer wonders:

As the sun wills the pull of the stars, casting light on the secrets that the galaxy holds,

secrets for mankind to claim as their own.

What does the deer have?

It has only the hours given in a day.

to stare, to be caught in the headlights of something much larger.



The sun does not care for the deer.

It doesn’t know of its stillness.

For hours, days,

for centuries, every deer who came before it.

Time is all the deer has.

watching, waiting for the sun to pull the sky down with it.

not questioning where it will go once it slips from view.

Creation is beyond a deer.

It obeys what the sun wills with its eyes.

The smell of the rain never changes,
delicate, quiet archivist of the clouds,
untouched by grief, by joy.
So unlike the human face,
which buckles under memory,
creasing, holding in on itself.

Or the sweetness of soft, bubbling laughter
rising, and falling warm against your skin.
Chilling your collarbone, a shiver of love
sending down your spine.

And raindrops, yes, you still taste them,
On your tongue, salted and cold.
Their kiss on your lips holds no meaning,

like your mothers hands, if ever,
threading through your hair. And the rain still comes.

Moved, and ever so unchanged.
With no memory of you at all.

Can you recall?
That beautiful, tender softness through your curls?
Where are the blooming faces of flowers?
The ones that smiled up at you, as they once did?