I don’t know about the sun or moon
but I don’t rise easily––
I wax, I wane, but I don’t rise easily.

In full sun I shine or shimmer,
cry like rain, roam like clouds,
clap like thunder,

howl like wind, bay at the moon,
sparkle or fall like a star––
but I don’t rise easily.

Mine is a reluctant rise
fostered by inertia, a body,
if not mind, at rest.

Drifting, dreaming, perhaps reading
till time or gnawing hunger
tugs against resistance

and I rise––
leaving behind
my mourning mind.

You wanted me to keep on
keeping on––
I have and I do

but not easily
without you.