Rooted

The darkness is joyful as I stretch out my neck. When the great lights of the dark shine bright I do my best to extend to touch them. I reach out as far as I can, and sometimes it almost seems that I will be able to caress them, but we are never given the pleasure. Alas, I must say goodbye as the night lightens to a beautiful pink. Some have told me that my skin is the color of the givers above, but I know not the reflections of my flesh. 

Morning dew turns to a smokey mist and dissipates into the wind that briskly kisses my face. It is my favorite part of the day. The fuming ball then rolls above and scorches me for endless moments. As I bake in the heat, I my flesh becomes dry and chapped. All of us wish for a drop of moisture to fall upon our faces, but no moisture can be felt. 

Some of us sing to the hot ball hoping that he will go to sleep soon. Fortune has come to us on occasion when our singing conjures great gifts of white and grey blankets that protect us from his boiling grasp. There have been great waves of gifts when the blankets show sacrifice by giving us their tears. Some say that the blankets are sad because of how many of us are dying each day, but I believe the tears are a gracious response to our beautiful voices. 

When the fuming ball decides to rest darkness is welcomed once again. Anticipation makes me wiggle as I await the coming of the multitudes of lights. I stretch further this time hoping to touch just one. Expanding to reach them is the most favorite part of my life.