Helios

The sun is harsh, intolerant of mood.
You cannot sit inside, self-absorbed, musing,
as on a dark, somber winter day inside a small room
with a radiator hissing.
Feelings protrude in sunlight
naked and awkward like skeletons.

The sun pours on an intensity that bleaches the richest
hues of flowers and green places
to a lifeless wan;
and gives the snow a whiteness that makes eyes wince.

If someone should die on a radiant day,
their loss is mocked by a placid mask of luminescence,
as mourners strain in the sunlight
squinting and throwing shadows.

I would not wish to live where there is always sunlight.
I need rest from such expectations.
I am not healthy enough for the sun.

Sometimes in March the sun deceives, dazzling the air
in a frigid light
that denies the icy blasts of wind,
illuminating old derelicts with coats drawn up over their heads
for warmth and privacy.

The sun is like the child who brazenly points his finger
to make secret things conspicuous.

It is only private in forests,
with tangled branches hugging the shade,
interconnecting with rocks and damp moss and foliage
to form a retreat from the ubiquitous light.
Or in a room in winter
to know the cold outside
by the hissing and sputtering of the heat;
in a dark and private womb with a single lamp,
and the day in kinship overcast.