From the Blue

How is it that the sun never tires?

Photo by Alex Conchillos on Pexels.com

Stretched, thin, worn, immobile am I, but I remember being the sun. Every morning a fresh day, a joy inside that I could never extinguish: could never burn out, could never thin to the pale thread of vapor I am currently-passing away quietly, gently, suredly. How does the sun endure? Poets speak of those liquid golden drops, the bright sparkles of orange that prick the gloom of early morning, and speak of hope. But I have none, even as I watch that glowing orb. At least, I have very little.

How does it never tire?