Solar Fruit Salad

The sun
I know
Wears a variety of gowns
Among the many spheres
In which she sets.

She glows white hot
In orbits closer to her
Massive
And oppressive.

On the War Planet
Of Mars
Her setting hue
Is powder blue.

From perspectives distant
She seems a tiny
Gleaming nuclear furnace.

But here
In the “Goldilocks Zone”
She is a lemon in the morning
An apricot at noon
And tangerine when she sets.

I’ve no desire to see her fury
Nor her ambivalence.
Give her to me
In her Northern nurture
Her Midwestern charm
Her Western thrill
Her Eastern sleepiness
And her Southern sweat.

Last evening she slipped into
Illinois cornfields
The color of sliced cantaloupe
Full-bodied and late-summer ripe.

She does not beg worship
But calm appreciation.

Soon her warmth will sleep
And we will rest in hope
She will awaken to us soon
Playfully urging us outdoors
To offer her our shoulders
Our arms and legs
In celebration
Of her gleaming joy
And our perfect place
In the universe.