A Wrinkled Sun Poem by Keith Sly Simpson

A wrinkled sun I see
With all its golden thread like
Covering
Around like a spring
All golden and ash
All amber and dusk.
All bright and brighter
All beautiful and quieter.
She's descending down,
The glory of the skies
Her blush is amiable
And her blush nor pink
Nor red
But orange and gold.
She's carrying her
Everlasting
Burning glow
Of neon and red.
Oh! How everything is
Subtly different,
Subtly different.
Her unchanged form of ever.
Eternal for me now and forever.
Her slow motion, in her
Quite steps like walking
Down an aisle.
She disappears slowly behind the
Musky clouds of white and grey
Leaving a trail of light
To follow
To miss.