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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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