Why Under The Sun Don’t You Write

Why Under The Sun Don’t You Write

The sun lifts its golden face above the roofs,

steady and unapologetic in its rising.

It spills light across my quiet table,

as though the page deserves attention.

Why under the sun don’t you write, it asks,

when the morning is wide and waiting.

When the air is clean with promise,

and nothing stands guard at the door.

I sit with thoughts folded inside me,

turning them over like stones in a pocket.

Some feel heavy with unfinished sentences,

some glow faintly and ask to be freed.

I tell myself I need silence,

a perfect hour without interruption.

The sun burns through thin drifting clouds,

unconcerned with whether the world is ready.

It does not delay its entrance for doubt,

nor soften itself to suit my fear.

It arrives full and certain each morning,

and leaves only when the work is done.

The page before me is pale and patient,

almost daring me to make the first mark.

Ink waits in the hollow of the pen,

aware that hesitation solves nothing.

Perhaps writing is no different from light,

a decision to appear without apology.

A willingness to stand in open view,

even if the edges are imperfect.

So I let the first sentence fall,

not flawless, not dressed for applause.

Just honest enough to breathe in daylight,

just strong enough to exist.

The sun rests high above my shoulder,

no longer questioning, only watching.

It knows that words, like mornings, return,

whenever I choose to rise with them.