you might be a reluctant learner
but the sun isn’t.
it glides over the sycamore and the chaparral,
it sneaks into the tangles of the rosemary,
tracks down the mama cottontail,
not to burn her or even to touch,
just to follow into her den
to learn what she feels as she sees the day break
you might be a reticent friend
but the sun isn’t.
you might have just cried—
no matter, it still shines on you.
you might have lost your cuddly lamb—
no matter, it strokes your hair,
just to tell you there is more room
in your heart for more love and heartache
you might be a hesitant lover
but the sun isn’t.
it wraps you up, holds you warm,
dries your tears, soothes your pain,
tells you you are loved, always.
—
Gizem Karaali is a mathematician, a mother, an editor of a couple professional journals, and a human. She is also an albino, a Turkish citizen, a California transplant, and a chocoholic. Her poetry so far has mostly appeared in mathematical poetry readings, anthologies, and periodicals directed toward mathematical audiences.
