The Day the Sun Forgot to Rise One summer morning, dim and dark, believing dawn had yet to spark, I woke within my den. But, heard I not one chirping lark and saw the time was ten. So scarce did I believe my eyes it seemed the sun forgot to rise. Beyond my window beamed a glow, igniting all the block below on which a blanket fell of cinders twirling down like snow from heavens cloaked in Hell. In wistful echoes came the cries, they wailed “the sun forgot to rise!” The bay itself seemed set aflame as if eternal twilight came to sizzle Sutro’s ridge. Though may it seem a silly claim: the fog, it matched the bridge. We trembled under scarlet skies the day the sun forgot to rise. Then, all my fellows on the street, they wept in agonized defeat, in shadows sepia-toned, preparing to their maker meet, “the end is nigh,” they moaned. We wallowed low in swarms of flies— on us, the sun forgot to rise! Then sudden dimmed the amber mist, like Hades loosened up his fist, revealing bits of blue— in rapture, rays of sunlight kissed the lingering drops of dew. We shook the city with our sighs to see the sun begin to rise. Now, might we never feel surprise: who’ve seen the sun forget to rise.
Clyde Always is an accomplished cartoonist, poet, painter, novelist and Vaudevillian storyteller. He lives in San Francisco, CA with his wife Kaylee the Ukulele.