The Sun’s a Lady

The sun sits pretty
’cause she’s a lady,
legs crossed,
slender rays;
a lady never misbehaves.

The sun sits pretty,
horizon’s her home.
Bakes clouds,
mends torn sky;
a lady never questions why.

The suns sits pretty
in a modest gown,
solar waves,
pink blush cheeks;
a lady waits before she speaks.

The sun sits pretty
wears Dusk’s dark jacket,
a gentleman’s trust.
She never wrestles;
a lady’s the weaker vessel.

The sun sits pretty,
the horizon’s her throne.
Gentle spirit,
magnetic sunset;
a lady withdraws in respect.


Artwork: “Sun Goddess” by Kyoko Yamaji

I grew up being told to do all things like a lady. It wasn’t until recently that I reevaluated my own use of the word. This poem questions the term lady and its hidden meaning. Thanks for the kindling, Misky.

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