A sunrise means hope and new beginnings, and there is nothing more romantic than a sunset. One is potential, the other completion, both poetic and fine. A sunrise cannot be tainted, for it is pure. Anticipation wraps itself in crimson clouds as the roused sun rises. Anything can happen on this day.

A sunset is final. Nothing can be added, nothing taken away as the proud sun, whether victorious or defeated, sinks beneath the waters below at the edge of the earth.

You don’t hear much about the noon.

Noon isn’t glorious. It is hot, tedious, and sweaty. The brilliant colors of the day’s bookends are absent from its bright blue skies- beautiful to be sure, but common, almost, since they are present for hours and hours each day. A sunrise or a sunset is just a fleeting glimpse. This is why we remember them. This is why we revere them.

Yet noon is when all of the work gets done. The hours between rising and setting when the sky is no longer on fire, when the world is no longer sleeping, when potential is mostly spent and finality has not yet come. Noon is not poetic, but it is necessary, and even here there is some wonder to be found, but of a different kind, and harder to see.

I love a sunrise, but it is juvenile. I love a sunset, but isn’t it death? I am in the noon of my life, or sometime in midmorning, at least, and there is much work to be done.

The blue sky feels brilliant today.


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