As I drive to work, Ben Webster plays
My Funny Valentine on sax.
Each right turn reveals
deeper shades of gold;
each left turn, blue sky.
But the gold cannot stay:
Second by second, it changes,
slips away and then revives.
As I edge into the parking lot,
clouds now appear electrified
like lightning bolts,
wild and unphotographable.

Every living thing,
however comic or laughable,
seeks a day in the sun.
Even the earth, animated
by gravity, does not stay fixed in space,
but rotates, like a lover or dancer.
The sun, too, veers towards the earth
each day like a dove to her nestlings.
For what would the sunrise be
without our sweat rising to meet it,
without our strong lungs that exhale
invisible molecules into the atmosphere,
to draw color from the rays of sun?