Nightly Ritual

A sun does not grow light.

He purchases it
From the 99 cents store
And then he takes it home
And scrubs it with a rag
And some rubbing alcohol
In a rusty kitchen sink.

He rubs away old stickers
Rubs away until it shines.

And then at night,
Working until early morning,
The sun carefully cuts the light
Into scraps and glitter.

And when the new day comes,
He showers the light across the world.

He smiles at his handiwork,
Watching the pieces flutter
Warmly through the sky
Silently to the floor.

Eventually,
The bucket runs out
And the brightness fades.

So the sun buttons his coat
And puts on his hat
And goes to wait by the bus stop,

A single dollar in his pocket.

Todays best new poem was written by Emma Temple-Hill.

 

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