There is a force in the arch of your foot that pushes you forward when you run in the sand,
a steadiness in the eyes that see the sun before it fully shakes the colours of sleep from itself into the sky.
There is reward in the ability to revel in starting the day with eyes a little heavier,
a compromise in times command to be more important than comfort.
There is a depth deeper in the palm that desires the direction of the earth,
a willingness that runs wilder in the palm that awaits the rain.
There is more truth from the tongue that doesn’t twist,
a likeliness of lies from the breath of shallow lungs.
I wonder if it’s difficult for the sun to rise every morning, if he has a routine of coffee or a snooze button he allows himself to press only three times. I wonder if he knows how even though there is challenge in change, the sky is so beautiful. And I wonder if he’s still lovers with the moon, or do we only have the night because they grew apart. Is it awkward for him to see her in the sky sometimes before he’s settled for the night? Does he choose the colours he paints the sky with every night?
I wonder if he’s sleeping angry when he set’s bright red.
I wonder if he misses her when he wakes up tangerine.
I worry for the moon, carrying around the weight of the tides. I wonder how she got tied down and if she’s just strong or determined. I worry for all the blame we put on her for our grievances when she’s full, if she’s ever confessed to such mischief or simply never denied the accusations. I wonder if she is vying for the sun’s affections with every wax and wane, trying to please his appetite.
I worry the stars are too far away to be friends.
I worry she can’t see her reflection in the ocean.