The earth is covered with snow, and the birds are starving.
Our cars are buried and frozen, our walkways are two feet deep.
O Sunna, shine on us! Melt the blanket of snow
into refreshing waters for the earth.
Helios, linger overhead, till the bare boughs drip water.
Apollo, sing, and charm the winds into blowing the drifts aside
so that the small birds and the wild deer can feed.
Grannos, heat the earth from within,
make safe our sidewalks and roads.
Vertumnus, turn the wheel, soften the earth
to be sown, encourage the snowdrop and the crocus,
and clear the ground for the birds’ mating dances.
Thor, drive away the frost giants, and protect us
when we burst outside, driven by cabin fever!
Children of the Sun
Aeneas came to Latium fleeing the wrack of Ilium,
driven by the might of Juno. In Latium he married
Lavinia, daughter of King Latinus, himself the son
of Circe, sorceress and goddess, for her father was
Helios, whom the Latins called Sol. Ave, Sol Indiges!
Father of Circe, the mother of Latinus, the father of
Lavinia, the wife of Aeneas and first mother of Rome,
you are the father of all of us, O shining deity, for
truly the sun is the source of life. When Phanes
cracked the cosmic egg, all the shining ones spun
out from him, expanding through the Mother Night,
beginning the great dance in which the starry Goddess
and her Serpent, son and lover, ever lead all that exists.
From that primal dance both fiery stars and cooling
planets, comets and nebulae, all the wonders of
the heavens, came to be. You, Sol Indiges, are
the origin of the blessed earth, the giver of all power,
you whose light feeds the planets that feed mortals
both human and animal, you whose light turns the wheel
of the endless water cycle, drawing up, showering down,
you whose light stored in wood and coal and oil, prized
gifts you gave to Earth, drives our machines and all our
works. O father, Sol Indiges, grant us sufficient sun
to grow our food, neither too much nor too little, grant
us rain likewise, neither too little nor too much; temper
the heat of August, and temper our use of fuel with
wisdom, you who consume yourself in giving, native Sun.
So many voices have cried out over the centuries
in prayers to be led from darkness into light.
To whom shall we pray for those who died of too much light?
O Helios, forgive us: We attempted to grasp your power
and we created only death, a death too terrible for Hades
or Persephone. To whom shall we pray?
The god of the sun joins atom to atom in life-giving union,
but we built an impure fire by division, by destruction.
O Panprosdexia, to you I pray in the light of Hiroshima.
To you I pray for those who died in that light
and left only shadows burnt on a wall.
To you I pray for those who survived
burnt and maimed, their generations poisoned.
To you I pray for the children of the survivors,
cursed and deformed by the sufferings of their parents.
To you I pray for Tsutomu Yamaguchi,
who survived both Hiroshima and Nagasaki
to speak of them, that we may not forget.
Lead them, Panprosdexia, into a holy darkness.
Into a peaceful and healing darkness let them be led.
Pour your honey on their wounds and wash them clean.
Quench the burning of unholy fires in the weapons of mass destruction.
Lead the peoples of the earth to a place where we may join hands
in the darkness without fear and gather around a blessed fire to feast as kin.