Supplication to the Sun

I could sit in the sun today
without writing
leaning against the trunk of a hemlock
on a hill overlooking the quite bygone
with my eyes closed
contemplating nothing
except the incandescence itself:
drunken to the core this Sun,
imprisoned only by the life that slurps it up.

But how to share if I don’t scribble?
A soul could babble with psychic export
the intent of all creation and not another
would likely sense, psychically feel the purport
thus transmitted.

So seize me, Sun,
inspire my words
so that during my brief span
of earth-bellied fire I
through them might too
shine on.