Sun's Mandate

The sun, a brass gong, a brassy, blazing command, it wakes the world, with a fiery, golden hand. The air, a hesitant breath, in a nascent, cool embrace, now exhales, warming with the sun's grace. The earth, a jade canvas, in emerald light, it lies, dappled, vibrant, shimmering under golden skies. The trees, a verdant legion, stand tall, reaching for the sun's rays, in an arboreal, vibrant thrall. And then, a slow descent, the sun, a tilted coin, it's light, a slanting fire, on a canvas, now stained with wine. The earth, in ochre draped, hushed, in golden afterglow, embraces the waning sun, as shadows lengthen, softly grow. The wind, a sigh of cool air, brushes the twilight sky, with the day's farewell, as night's curtain begins to lie. And on the tongue, the lingering taste, of sunlit warmth, a fading, sun-kissed sigh, a promise of dawn, in the heart of the night.