Story of the sun

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They’ll say the sun
came before the story,
that the tale was woven
long after sunrise
like morning mist
curling off a valley floor.
I say this sun is not
the first, just a chapter
in an opus, the final beat
yet to sound; a stream
may flow with life,
but you are an ocean
breathing tomorrow,
your waves the anxious
thrumming of time,
us caught in the pull
of the current slipping
out to sea and what
the horizon brings.
They’ll say the sea holds
a treacherous heart,
the story below and above
a wicked narrative astrew
with the yawls and skiffs
of yesterday, but the sun
shines both there and here,
and the story isn’t bound
by the space between.
They’ll say a tale’s only
as good as the teller.
I say the teller’s only
as worthy as the tale.



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