Let
the sun tell you
where
the cobwebs are.
Follow
it around the house
all
day. Surprise them.
They
think you can’t see.
Let
the sun tell you
where
dust is laid like snow.
Lift
up the doily, and Aha,
a
dust doily remains,
you’ve
invented an art form.
Let
the sun tell you
when
a year gets old.
It
cuts back on its hours.
Homeopathic
pills on legs,
spiders
no longer cower.
Let
the sun tell you
the
best way out of here.
It
sets without struggle, has
no
unfinished business,
rises
again another place.
Russell Rowland
