Both, and Neither

We name the sun to tame its wrath—
Dawn’s honey, noon’s sharp knife,
Dusk’s forgiving afterglow.
We raise umbrellas, frail as faith,
Like farmers’ grass hats once did,
Bartering shade for scraps of light.

When drought cracks the earth’s parched lips,
Even shadows crumble to dust.
Yet without sun, we pale to ghosts,
Craving the very fire that scars.

And rain! We sing its coming,
Then fumble raincoat buttons, torn—
Half-lovers, drunk on the first warm drops,
Then flinching at the fever’s cost.

Scant rain, and the fields gasp lies;
Too much, and rivers rewrite the land.
Nature mocks our middling prayers—
Her love is flood and famine.

Still, the skin remembers:
Sun’s gilding kiss on bare shoulders,
Rain’s baptism on thirsty ground.
Umbrellas furled like sleeping wings,
Raincoats hollowed from waiting.

That’s why the singer’s voice breaks:
“Sun, why today must you hide?”
Then later, soaked to the bone:
“Rain, why must you always leave?”

We are creatures of both, and neither—
Sun’s child, rain’s fleeting lover.
Life’s work: to stand exactly here,
One hand burning, one hand wet.