The sun lights up the quick and dead alike –
The ivy-covered trunks and fallen boughs –
And even warms where lightning doesn’t strike –
The foremost of a thousand million nows.
And, though, at times, the stripes of shadows cast
Outnumber sunlit patches ten-to-one,
The pathway lets you leave the woods at last
To bring you in the full glare of the sun.
You feel its heat sink deep inside your chest,
Despite the many layers that you wear.
It makes you think that you are overdressed
And if you maybe shouldn’t cut your hair.
A summer cut would be the very thing!
Although it isn’t even early spring.
Photo by Daniel Peters on Unsplash
Winter Sun
