You know the sun is burning out, don’t you?
It’s dying, just very slowly. Slowly and lovely.
So slowly, in fact, one wouldn’t be wrong to say it lives.
After all, distant as the death of the sun is our own,
and we don’t dare call it dying when we burn.
And lovely, so lovely too, that one can’t go on without it.
It wakes us, feeds meals, gives Earth something to do.
The productivity wouldn’t kill, but fill our time.
If I could, I would die like the sun each day I live.
About the Poet
Carson Pytell is a poet living in a small town outside Albany, NY. His work has appeared in numerous venues online and is currently available or forthcoming in print from such publications as Vita Brevis Press, The Virginia Normal, NoD Magazine, Blue Moon Lit & Art Review, Spank the Carp, Crack the Spine, Futures Trading, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Gideon Poetry Review, and Children, Churches & Daddies, among others. His debut collection, First-Year (Alien Buddha Press, 2020), is available on Amazon, and his first chapbook, Trail (Guerrilla Genesis Press, 2020), is in the works.