The Sun

I ventured to peer into the
sun at dusk,
filtered through the twilight trees.
Like that,
I can see the outline,
perfectly round.

I know it's a sphere,
but to me, to my
terrestrial feet,
bound to this ground by toes and heels,
it's but a disc,
slowly spinning
and burning itself from the inside.

I'm suddenly not satisfied
with my eyes.
Though the sun should blind,
the trees protect me.

I reach out with my hand, for I would not
reach out with another,
and play with the heat on the pads
of my fingers.

I imagine a symphony
as the warmth threads itself into my
hanging tapestry,
weaving a story into the lines
and lines
lines.

Propelled by this new sound,
I step up into the sky,
bouyed by the breeze
and the sounds of the road.
To set foot on the sun
is to become a god.
And that is impossible.