The Spirit Of The Sun

 

 

The bee knows where to find pollens;

the spider, how to span a chasm—

      driven, in the blood.

The stream follows the slope,

the way to the sea

      in rustling meander,

gathering moss, throwing gloss.

 

The sun, none can block

      his way, or slow his course

  till decked with a garland

      of golden rose.

             

It’s in the blood,

    in a genetic transmutation

       wrought by the ageless hand

that sculptured

    floating moon and winking eyes.

    

The sun cuts a highway in a jungle,

    drills light in pitch darkness;

       he sucks honey from rock,

draws the ire of fleas in the lea.

 

Cry against the scotching heat,

    but embrace his warmth less

       winter whines when summer

flees for lack of spring.

 

 

 

© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi 

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