Whatever falls back to the ground

Mother Of The Sun

One might ask in a room that keeps
a disembodied voice, your father’s,
perhaps, Who is the mother of the sun?

The stranger who bore you will release
a basketful of answers that might leap
up as if into a thundered April sky.

Whatever falls back to the ground
is your answer. We open petals to
read them aloud to one another:

This one says, I grieve myself in love,
I grieve myself out of love. Another
reads: Life is lived larger than itself.



Tomorrow is made mostly of sorrow.
Laughter reminds us this each time we
shake it out across the trembling stars.

The sweet life is sweetened only by
the dulcet distillations of our tears.
We want life, we want love, and get it.

Granite satyrs temper the morning as
boys search the wet grass for ragged
flags surrendered mere hours before.

Girls walk stone bridges like their
mothers before them as if keeping
vigil against a forgotten invader.

Darkness is the mother of the sun.
Her children are born beautiful, sightless,
drowned by loving waves of relentless light.

Joseph Gallo
July 31, 2011