In the Hands of an Orange Sun

At dawn I stirred in the hands of an orange sun.

My dreams were chained, my children still young.

We journeyed down winding lanes that had burned

at dawn. Ice stared in the hands of an orange sun

and my daughters had had daughters. My son spurned

his train sets for coal and wrench, became a man

at dawn. I stirred in the sands of an orange sun.

My dreams were changed: my children, still young.