After Sandor Weores
The sun scatters light with abandon
on the bare hayfield,
straight-as-arrow rays, resolute in common purpose.
Yes: that’s the sun.
You and I too should beam so recklessly
on traffic, on strip malls, the rare and throbbing
bee hive, on icebergs nodding till they turn
belly up, green glass underside in polar sea.
To open from far up there, to just send your light out for years
until you hit land, until you casually stir
up a hurricane, until you light up such corners of human life
without regard for what it is we illuminate.