©Vince Pawless 2019

The Sun & Moon & Stars make the wind blow. Sun up, sundown, sunny day, sunny outlook, sunny disposition. Son of god, sonny, sun rise, sun in my window. The disk of the sun, the pale of the sun, the strength of the sun, if not for the sun, the wonder of the sun, the loneliness of the sun, the warmth of the sun, the sun at high noon. The brooding sun, the oppressive sun, the frown of the sun, the glare of the sun, the smirk of the sun, the smile of the sun, the wink of the sun, the sun at the center of the solar system. If the sun comes out it won’t rain on your parade.

The gloat of the sun, the hand of the sun, the backhand of the sun. The sun turns your skin red, the sun peels the paint off your car. For want of the sun, for need of the sun, but for the sun. The sun’s gonna shine in my backdoor someday. Make the sun go away, too much sun, the eclipse of the sun, too little sun. Wait for the sun. But if you wait for the sun you could be here all day. 

The color of the sun, the glint of the sun, the only sun, many suns, does the sun go out at night? If so, where? With whom? Does the sun have a cell phone? Can the sun be reached? On Facebook? Is the sun something you can count on? Ask a cloud. The setting of the sun through the palms, the setting of the sun over the mountain, the sun setting down the alleyway. The sunset in your eye, sun beams, sun shines, the city under the sun, the desert under the sun, the civilization under the sun, the sun will scorch this side of town to a cinder. 

The sun bakes, the sun broils, the sun irradiates. Behind the sun, around the sun, like a solar wind from the sun, like a magnetic storm, like a blast furnace, like a nuclear fire. Like photons on the back of your eye, like a chain reaction, like the glow along the horizon, like the light in your imagination. 

The tears of the sun, the voice of the sun, the heart of the sun, a chariot in the sky. Like a blaze on the horizon, like a lantern in the night. The words of the sun, the silence of the sun, the outspoken sun, the theatre of the sun in the summer sun. The only sun around these parts, the only sun close enough to make a difference, we’re a long way from the center of the galaxy. The sun hiccups, the sun fumes, the sun neglects to come out. The sun forgot your reservation for the campsite in the forest, so it rained for daze.

The best kind of heroism is to be found
in the relentless practice of one’s profession.