It was a country of shadows piled
deep as snowdrifts, shadow on shadow,
whose people, darkened, obstinate,
talked incessantly of Sun.
“The Sun, if we could see the Sun!”
they cried, walking their flowerless gardens.
They cried, they wished. Sun never came.
Night lingered, intimate, familiar.
…Then a pink rumor swept the talk.
Windows raised, faces stared amazed
at breakfast colors. Blear eyes blinked
as an orange burst unleashed the town…
…The Sun! Oh, what a proud new life
melted the shadow drifts, heaped high
carols of garlands of thanksgiving!
Then the white holiday grew old.
Greens, yellows, reds…eyes glaze, palms sweat.
Day labor stretches east to west.
The populace felt quite oppressed
and wished the ebullient sun to cease.
“Oh, cherished night, sleep, peace, oh night!”
they cried, walking their flowering gardens.
They cried, they wished. Night never came.
Sun beamed down….