Today I face the east.
My arms are bare to the pow'r
of a sun I cannot see,
befriended by its warmth.
And yet my eyes are gripped in fear:
I will not look at it.
I can clearly fix in place this closest
burning star, sensing her warmth and light.
Her close position known unto my mind,
I somehow cannot tear my eyes from earth.
Just as Icarus, had he survived,
would sure have set a boundary for his gaze,
would have seen only paths, and roads, and ways,
so I see only plans and never stars.
Am I afraid of slick ambition's germ?
Or of infatuation's green malaise?
Or am I simply shy of granting sway
over my soul to things greater than me?
As inward battles wage, I take a poll:
the arms have been outvoted.
I turn to walk indoors, to gloom and rust.
My arms are made of chlorophyll;
my eyes, of dust.