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.