Sure, the poet tips his hat to the sun’s heat, 

and the sustenance it provides — 

all so functional,

but consider our infatuation with the moon:

attributing love and romance and mystery,

when in truth, it is just a dead rock

hanging out in space, and a poor imitation,

its own light a blind reflection,

which might be why we identify with the moon, 

everything within and around us having come 

from the stars — the earth and the moon,

our eyes and the hair in our lashes, 

our bones and our beating hearts.

Look around and you see the sun

everywhere — in the budding peony, 

and the ants filing through its petals, 

in waves of fluorescent phytoplankton

blooming in the seas:

every living organism, buried in the dark, 

swimming up, called forth by its light

from even where there is no light.   

So, don’t talk to me about the moon!

Not when, without reservation, the sun pours 

itself through the east facing windows

and into this quiet morning,

filling us with such brightness we have to shield

our eyes and bodies, and yet 

so welcoming that still we bend forward 

on rigid stems, leaning with blind faces 

into its unending stream.



 — AE Hines

Originally published in SLANT, Vol. XXXI, Summer 2017.


© 2017 by AE Hines.  All Rights Reserved.  

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