I'm not trying to be silly. There's a lot of white in our house and at night it turns into a lot of outlines and shadows. I know that little light is close and growing stronger. The last light of the evenings loses its air of sad settling defeat. I imagine the sun has been asleep or sick and must slowly regain its strength. If the sun had a face it would not be smiling yet but there would be a little gleam in its eye, calling "tomorrow I will try to stay a little longer." And in the morning I feel those rays - its long arms - straining for hours. Without faltering, the slow rise grows until it manages to crest the horizon. It's a small sliver, but it's bright.
I am really not this much of a hippie and don't think the sun is a person. It's a metaphor for hope, people. And a fact of the life.
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