I was trying to note where the Sun

I was trying to note where the Sun
had set the night before. A crescent Moon
lingered on the horizon amongst stars
in constellations; diffuse, milky clouds
condensing in the spectacle as rain.
This broad and moving stream of gradient light

unfolding overhead. Is it the light
of consciousness knowing itself? The Sun
becomes obscured by movements of rain―
pink, grey, purple, maroon. The Moon
reminds me of words or strings of clouds
in grammars. Once I heard in the stars

were letters, even numbers. Then a star
communicated its still, distant light
that I interpreted beneath the clouds.
I'm figuring the writing of the Sun
across the heavens, or the path the Moon
takes as a herald of the cleansing rains.

I want to know when it is going to rain
or where Jupiter is within the stars
that whirl about me. It's like they're the moons
about my self, singing systems of light
about my soul. Being a sovereign Sun,
I orchestrate the movement of a cloud

across the face of earth. A word―a cloud
that is the syntax carrying the rains
up from the gulf. I see now where the Sun
eclipses other luminaries. Stars
are lost in the ubiquity of light
that she provides, the overflowing Moon

can testify to it. Below the Moon
I make myself an astrolabe; the clouds
give color to the bent celestial light
telling me if tomorrow it will rain.
Among the language of the turning stars,
none moves with quite the scope of our Sun,

the sentiment of Moon, wetness of rain
from broad clouds, beauty of the stars
whose light gives love to all―blessed Sun.