The sun appears to rise
or fall, which is which
depends, as so much else
with our world, upon one’s
metaphorical point of view.
The earth, like us, just rolls
along its elliptical pulling
away from the sun while
simultaneously falling back,
into a stronger gravitational
field— an easy enough image,
if one desires, for a parent
and child, except that is not
what this poem is about.
Any more than it is about
Ben Franklin’s apocryphal
chair, or Dr. Williams’ red wheel
barrow, which were, as you noticed
no doubt, alluded to in the first
few broken lines at the beginning
of of this poem, before being
relegated to an empty trail
that somehow lead toward
this cave covered in mist
that we cannot enter.
(September 25, 2023)
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