A Rubbing Of The Sun

A rubbing of the sun appears in gold
and deep etched clouds in blue Crayola sky
and myself, as I looked at six years old,
with bright, new copper pennies for my eyes.

There seemed so much to know and to be seen.
I couldn’t see the coin behind it all;
just lions and portcullises and queens,
imagining a Cinderella ball.

I still recall the wonder that I felt,
seeing the smiling queen come shining through
but she scowls now and dreams begin to melt.
It’s rubbed away, the innocence I knew.

Now my sheet is the surface of my life.
Rubbing, with words, I feel I’m slowly gleaning
something of worth beneath the grief and strife;
bright smiles, like glimpses of some higher meaning.