The sun never rises, never sets.

We turn away, towards,
close our eyes, then open,
forget, then remember
genuflect, stand erect and bend back,
wander away, test the tether, then retreat,
and think it is the sun who has moved. 

True. She moves, like a child at a carnival,
holding her parent's hand, chasing her siblings,
gasping at the wonder and terror of this colossal playground.

And when, at the end of time, her body heavy, her eyes unseeing,
she is lifted up into the arms of her makers, rocked gently but firmly, and wrapped with care, we are no more and no less than the fragments, flares, and fractals that flash in her minds' eye in the moments before sleep.

I am content to be a Divine's dream.

Dedicated to bell hooks in her time of transition.