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Day of brightest light, of biggest wishes, of round mango suns. Day of promises coming true.

This day, this sticky heat, this sweet sweet sunshine pouring in. Welcome. I lift my arms to the sky, try to wrap them around you, you golden orb rising.

I will make my altars anew this day, so full of life. I will whisper shout my prayers to the heavens. I will light fires and eat tomatoes from the garden, let their juice spill down my chin. I will face south and sing alleluia. So much light, so much love, so much joy.

The Sun
By Mary Oliver

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone–
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance–
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love–
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed–
or have you too
turned from this world–

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

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