I Am the Sun

I lie back to watch the clouds,

and listen to the grass sigh under me as it slumps,

forming to my languor,

 and I pretend I am a chalk outline ready to be filled with colors and shapes

from a poets last dreaming.

The sun glows hot orange and red behind my eyelids and I let the coolness below 

and the heat above meet in the middle.  

Am I rooting deeper into the earth?

Or am I flying into the sun

my arms spread to catch the wind?

I am the sky.

I am the earth.  

I am the sun.




The tree hangs over me and the leaves wait in line to share their

story.

The wind picks them and they float with the telling,

and the spinning seeds thank them as they pass.

I am learning the speech of leaf and seed,

and I too,

want to plummet into the recitation and tell the roots my story,

and feel it settle into them and 

deepen.

I am the sky.

I am the earth.

I am the sun.




My skin tingles as the light pours and I tilt my head

to absorb it all,

 and I imagine myself a glass

glowing with the heat,

and the tendrils sink into my veins

streaming gold and 

I shine with my own reflection... 

A mirror for the clouds, 


silver white and stormsmoke gray,

and breathlessly balance myself along the azure

 rim of the world.

I am the sky.

I am the earth.

I am the sun...

I am the sun.
©jayetomas2017
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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7 Responses to I Am the Sun

  1. More glittering imagery! I’ve just read this.
    https://thefeatheredsleepcom.wordpress.com/2017/06/29/root/
    The two poems complement one another beautifully, I think.

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