Poetry: “The Escapee” by Donald Illich

It’s terrible the sun has escaped.

We wait for it to come back,

to behave like a sun should,

keep us warm, grow our crops.

We freeze ourselves in suspended

animation, dig deep into volcanoes.

Curses escape us, a thousand

per minute, for this missing star.

Should we find a new one?

Shoot rockets into space for a home

that would never be abandoned?

We’re almost about to launch, 

when the sun arrives in shades,

tan and rested, ready for another

million years of light.  We boo it,

but our love for it will return.

Buds will burst from dirt, flowers 

will stand still, refusing to die.