I keep dying, Earth keeps turning,
I keep crying, sun keeps burning.
Must Earth stop turning and sun stop burning
before we have our long-sought rest?

You hold me, Sun, on this circular run.
Round I go, and round once more.
Spending my seed and making new,
crying my need and making do.

And all the while your light shines through,
yellow, clear, bright and true.

When Crayolas worked, I drew your rays,
red-orange and spreading in all different ways
through waxen clouds of check-mark birds
frozen beneath Big Chief’s head.

When Crayolas worked, I dreamed an angel,
a bar of light, your messenger,
beckoning from a wallpaper corner,
blushing in the porcelain gas glow.

When Crayolas worked and chariots swung low,
and America was beautiful and time was slow.

Then all that died in life’s longer year.
Autumn came, colors turned sere.
Brittle Crayolas crumbled when touched.
The friends of life were cold and hushed.

Still you were there, shining and warm
behind snow clouds, safe from our harm.
The seed I am again burst out,
drank your heat, suckled your light

in another fair spring to live again
on billowing oceans of bottomless green.