Still, she rises.

Today’s post was meant to be a myth about why the sun rises and sets. It is now a dedication to Maya Angelou. She would have been 90 today, and like the sun, may her words always stir you to rise. 

 


Don’t rouse me from my covers to tell me that the early bird gets the first worm. Pray that I don’t hear the rise and shine come from your lips.

Tell me about her strength, and how each morning, she breaks the dawn with her power. The force that she uses to slowly push herself into the sky, knowing that you all wait for that ignition. A sign of a new day, another chance.

Tell me about her thick skin, that does not char or tarnish from her daily toil. The outer layer of her being that although as tough as leather, is as supple as the leaves that dance in the wind – moving slowly over the horizon.

May I wake knowing that it is because of her strength that there is light. That she is the force behind each day and the waves that sway. Pushing and pulling herself to her own rhythmic beat, that we can’t help but become mesmerised by.

And as I have spent my time wondering about her mystery, tell me where she goes each night.Pulling back the light, ever so slowly, behind a curtain of cloud.

Tell me where she hides. When the fire has been put out, and the light has gone, how does she rest? Regenerating the strength to rise again.

Does the light go to the other side, the side we cannot see? Or has it been turned to ash and flickering ambers where it seems she can no longer be?

Or are they waiting for her to wake again before the dawn, rising up from the flickers like a phoenix?

Do not rouse me from my covers to tell me that the early bird gets the first worm. Wake me and tell me that she is a myth, she is a mystery. She is the sun, she is the light, she is the fireball in the sky.

– s.k.r


 

 

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