Ode to Apollo
Too often the sky goes white all the way
To the edges, as if all the blue we had drained
Into the river and washed away. Too often
It seems like the world is void of blue or even
The grey that people call the sky when it rains.
And it’s not just color that leaks from the sky:
Light also loses its luster, as do the faces
Of the buildings, the people, the flowers.
There’s nothing the buildings can do about it.
They sit there facing the four directions
Equally. The people face downward, even
While walking, their noses inches away
From their phone screens; only a sickly light
Emanates without illuminating, and they
Never notice the sky, even when the sun
Reappears, finally, Apollo’s horses riding out
Of the cloud-cover to reassert the god’s sheer
Radiance. Only the flowers pay such close
Attention to the sky that they look up, basking
In the sudden warmth, and follow his blazing,
Glorious trail across the sky, transfixed and
Unable to look away, unwilling to think
Too soon about the inevitable fall of indigo
Dusk, purple evening and charcoal night.
But even then, the warmth stays with them
Nesting among their petals until chill midnight
Finds them facing East once more and hopeful.