The last gasp of the Sun
before the night,
as life clings to it,
and its creative light.
Before the sunset -
before it's gone -
the light bursts across
blades of grasses
that cast long shadows
on the lawn;
and silently
it produces its final song,
before its return
with the dawn.

The eye of Ra droops
below the hills
and changes the terrain
and necessary skills
to survive here and now:
in the darkness,
it is better to be a lion
than a cow.

In the night where the cold
and clever reign,
by deceit and eating
eaters of the grains,
some rejoice while others sleep;
some fitful and fearful,
some relaxed and deep.

It is in these ticking hours
that most can find the time to plant
their flowers:
grow their minds,
stretch their powers,
plant their seeds,
and right family towers.

In industrial society,
most find the sun a prison of their time;
and when they finish work,
in the night,
they can creep toward their goals -
like a vine -
in the cold and false light,
or in the darkness
(as Osiris would have it),
without a fight;
and without
clarity
of sight.

Which is why I prefer to write on Saturday . . . copyright 2009