the Day arose and dressed herself,
behaving as she’s always done;
to show her streaming rays of light,
her habits most quotidian

while in the wet backyard, there sat
a wooden Table: lone, depressed;
he’d known the sun’s act now for years,
and, day-to-day, grew less impressed

so one just sat, the other moved;
their paths, together once, had forked:
he’d come to hate her pathways bright,
for she shone on,
as he grew
warped