Does the sun know that in eight minutes time

Light from it’s ancient fusion will arrive in my eyes?

Given what I see I assume some level of consciousness

Creativity in the morning on the curtains by my bed

Surely the sun must know

That at a certain angle it will make a show

.

The curtains, closed, help

They are pale, with a light vertical trellis in places

But mostly a rambling rose, with buds and flowers

They too I ascend like the sun

Climb out of winter slumber to follow the light

And set their leaves in air in flight

.

But it is brightly creative and alive and moving

The light moves mostly down and slightly to the left

As the sun, close to mid-summer rises to the right

And beyond the window, trees, branches, leaves

All too in motion, swaying in the breeze

And, in motion too, attached to trees

.

At times there is no show as clouds, I presume, block the light

But wait and it returns

Some singular path joins unjoined growth, in juxtaposition

A pattern and patterns of movement coalesce

And a dance unfolds, of shapes over shapes

Beside our bed, through window and on our drapes

.

A small fluted leaf, a stem, a branch

And what are clearly oak leaves lobed and blunt

Wisteria, filigrees of fine hair on a babies brow

Some, distant and indistinct bit of tree makes a backdrop

To some limb and leaf nearby and in focus, sharp

Plays and upstages the rest, visually like the sound of a harp

.

From a boiling mass far away

Beyond white hot, a creative act

Lyrical and rolling the sound of the thunder of the sun

Made into a light show for our eyes, briefly

Transformed by a passage through space

To our bedroom, to this place