The work of the sun.(Brief Article)(Poem)

 
The work of the sun 
 
   Verlaine said the poem slowly rises like the sun, 
   Spreads over the landscape, a bird that hovers, 
   Moves on to find and bless a pair of lovers: 
   The work of the sun is never done. 
 
   It loves the still, ardent, and the physical-- 
   The house is closed--it climbs the stair, 
   And leaves its shaded footprints everywhere: 
   The always prowling word is never finical. 
 
   A vast impressionist, it mixes palettes-- 
   You think you have the sunlight captured on a nude, 
   But it never meant to stay too long or brood-- 
   Clouds pass by, and in a moment it forgets. 
 
   It dawdles with the minatory and the minuscule, 
   Spotlights a hidden bruise, a ...