Thirteen Faces of the Sun

 Thirteen Faces of the Sun

A shimmering Sun rises over the horizon of the Great Lake, blazing a golden trail straight over the water to me.

That big, old orange in the summer sky makes it Florida everywhere it shines.

It’s the end of October. The Sun has become the one, blood-red eye of an ogre as it sets on the Eve of the Hallowed.

Today, scud of ragged clouds scratch Sun’s half-hidden face.

On the shore of the Great Lake, a blanket of vapor shrouds the Sun in a sodden, gray robe.

Now frigid January, the Sun is so low in the sky, its light blindingly harsh, and even its very flames seem cold.

A child draws a picture of a smiling Sun. It warms the heart of all who see it.

Sun’s rays shine bright through the maple leaves, green morning light.

Sun sparkles on the water, even that of the drainage pond off the acres of asphalt.

Dark shadows of trees are sharply bordered by the grass gleaming in the Sun.

Now low in the sky, Sun paints his dazzling impressions on the wind-rippled waters of the lake.

Almost sundown, the Sun turns his brush of rays to the surround of clouds, painting with fire.

The last of the Sun’s light highlights only the tops of the tallest trees before saying goodnight.