I’ve seen 24,300 sunrises, maybe more,
but this morning, the plump
sun sings the sky awake as if
it were the first time. I’m rusty at the feeling
of surprise, so I get down to business,
practicing appreciation, telling myself
that light is an aria rolling
an exotic language on the tongue
of our green lawn. And then I think
why bother with an opera?
Make it simple. Come into this poem, sun.
Shine. But what about tomorrow,
when my kids leave home, my mother
can’t recall my name, when rain slides
its little thumbs down our window pane
all morning? Then I say to my self–who remembers
nothing simple–self, then remember,
the sun is a fat diva, still
singing her head off somewhere
behind the clouds, above the rain.