Some mornings the sun is particularly persuasive. Its light weakens my bed’s hold over me and erases my desire to linger any longer in slumber.
On those mornings, sunlight makes an irrefutable argument for waking. The soft draw of my pillow is no match for the strength of the sun. As if commanded, I must get up.
Sometimes the sun is just a suggestion of itself—pale like it’s been washed out or diluted. Some days it’s the flame; other days it’s the ember. Amplified in the summer, subdued during winter.
The sun: light, warmth, and energy. Powerful, and yet so capable of beauty. Sunlight filtering through the bright green leaves of trees. Sunlight tickling the surface of the water, making it twinkle like it’s giggling. Shafts of sunlight piercing the clouds—looking holy—suggesting God.
The sun is an artist. Drawing banners of color—red, pink, orange—across the sky to mark its arrival and departure. Never coming or going in visual silence. Making dawn blush. Leaving dusk flushed.