Poem

No wonder our ancestors worshiped the sun.

What to an untrained, unmodern mind is more fierce and faithful.

I see it perched on a mountain ridge on a March morning, through naked trees.

Orange, yellow, gold, burning my retinas

So that even now I can barely write.

Egyptian Ra as bird of prey on a man's body

and Norwegian Sol in her chariot being chased,

my blonde forbears waited for her return to power each winter

The sign, the promise we will go on.

In the final kingdom we will need no sun, the apostle assures us.

Light will come from the original Maker, outshining Ra and Sol and all else.

Today, we do. Today that which we cannot look on for long reminds us

God still wants us to serve, endure, rejoice, grievve, sow, reap

And worship the unseen Maker not the seeable made

And see how much the made eymbolizes.