Solar / Star-Taler
Row upon row of silvery-black panels, tilt toward the house of God which is the sun. . There’s a microscopic world we can barely even imagine – blazing photons that stream across ninety million miles of space to shower these thin glass planes with a billion small shocks, bright abundance that falls even through cool northern skies, even on our dullest days – gold so plentiful we cannot catch it all, but spread these panels like nets beneath a tree of golden apricots or apron-skirts catching yellow windfalls. And I think of that German fairy tale of the little orphan girl who gave away everything she owned – her loaf of good black bread, her clothes – until she stood in a dark wood, not a stitch to cover her nakedness teeth clattering, praying hard, who found herself suddenly arrayed in finest linen, and all around her falling star-gold – motes she spread her skirts to catch – so many coins she never hungered or was cold again. The poorest countries are rich in sunshine. This is what I wish for them.
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