Child of the Sun

In my youth I feared her, fought her.
This was in savanna country. Her hand lay heavy on the earth.
We sweltered at our tasks, sought shade to lie down,
suffered drought, sucked at dry pipes,
walked miles to wells and shrunken rivers.
Failed monsoons meant famine. We prayed:
whole villages knelt and prayed for rain.
When it came, we danced and sang.
Free a while from Mother Sun’s glare, we played in the wet
while our mothers hung sopping laundry in the house.

Portland shocked me. Downtown, fountains everywhere—
Skidmore, Keller, Salmon Street—
Benson bubblers on every block. Extravagance!
I thought of my schoolmates carrying buckets
on their heads. I hated the folk with water-fat flesh
who took this all for granted.
                                              Until winter came.
It rained forever. Mother Sun lies low on the horizon here.
I learned what seasonal affective disorder meant.
I learned water could be held cheap and sunlight dear.
I searched for any patch of sun to bask in Mother’s love.

Forty years have passed. She’s grown savage.
Last year she set half the world on fire and choked
the rest in smoke. This spring she laid a hard hand
on my city: hundreds died. Fires sprang up
with every breath. Some still burn.
She cooked mussels in their shells. She mothers
monster storms to drown what she can’t burn.
With a blow of her shining fist she broke the gates
that hold the North Wind back. Her feet of flame
leave steaming holes in every sheet of ice.

Old habits now come back to me. I cross the street
to walk under trees. Scan every parking lot for a slice of shade.
I’ve remembered how to fear her.
I have to learn to fight her.

Books Available
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside