What’s the sun got to do with it?
asks a defiant gibbous moon, rising, as below
it and high enough, an eagle broods
her eggs in a blanket of snow
up to her head’s white plumage.

What’s the sun got
to do with it? Without
artificial light, you live

in a house of shadows
overlooking a bog that stores emotions
like a museum before it’s broken
open morning after morning
to reveal wrong turns

diagrammed in
left-handed scribble.
What’s the sun got to do

with it? Happiness
is a gold lamé gown
worn with confidence on a warm
fall evening under all those other stars.
Each season wears its glory

as a nod
to the knotted
hands of a celestial

seamstress. Another casualty
of forced labor, or
interstellar interloper,
who would know. The bot
is lying again. No one asked:

what’s the sun
got to do
with it? Refresh or revolt.