Friday Poetry: "The Sun's First Gift to Her Lover"

Happy Thanksgiving, lovelies! This is perhaps one of my favourite days of the year—not only because it is now socially acceptable to break out the Christmas melodies (because, if we are being real here, my holiday records have been out since September!), but also because I believe it is so very important to find gratitude in our lives. Thanksgiving is such a beautiful way to do just that, no?

Today I am thankful for poetry, and for good music, and for lovely covers of classic books and lovely covers of classic songs. I am thankful for tea and Hachii and stars and sweaters and my own privilege. I am thankful for the Internet and its lovely little communities. I am thankful for cameras and children's stories, for Marvel films and happy babies. I am thankful for small coffee shops and for Tchaikovsky and for strangers in love and for travelling and winter and rain and sleep. I am thankful for my beautiful friends, and for Half Mysticand for cute nicknames, and for therapy and the ocean and student discounts. I am thankful for scented candles. I am thankful for feminism. I am thankful for unexpectedly kind people. I am thankful for good teachers. I am thankful for writing, and for stillness, and for ice cream, and for Roald Dahl. I am thankful for fanfiction and flowers and laughter and all of my books. I am thankful for good days.

And I am thankful for you. It is a good thing that you exist.

Here is a poem for you. It is a thank you, as well.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. xx


The Sun's First Gift to Her Lover

tell me the name you chose for dawn(eyelids flutter
soft solitude)i know no greater joy than honeysuckle song(no
brighter blush)nor the pronunciation of light(always
falling always falling)kiss like a sun aglow with melody
kiss like you know the taste of fire hazard(kiss like you’re
staying anyway)hold tight to tissue paper sky(in the meantime
call it moth wing call it lavender)no moon not quite time to sleep
(perhaps perhaps perhaps)something bright in this static(call it
the trembling of your body)bone deep limerence(transfixed
in sleep)treble clef lover darling(i sing it from my rose-stained
mouth)and you erupt like the truest alchemy(curve
around sunrise softly blushing)don’t come in yet i am
still not finished painting in(the details of morning)