Sun Day

When I was younger, Summer called,
and so I echoed,
with love, love, love…
In warmth and whispers,
the nodding heads sprinkled their gold
on fields of unbroken green.

These days, I’ve been so silent -
my tongue’s foreign
to its own tastes
and the grass seems to be
always soaking wet.
The sun’s been failing
its own seeds.

The alarm clock calls, but
you see, I’ve been running
out of dawns.
It’s getting harder to wash,
and the mirror’s now a black eye’s furor,
watching back above the drip,
drip, drip into the darkened pool.

Yes, this is Good Morning…
But it’s not my Sun Day.