Imsomnia

As a watched pot never boils, so a longed-for sun dallies in rising,
As the sky imperceptibly shifts from black to blue to pearl,
Gilded with peach around the edges.

But just as no man can add a cubit to his life by worrying,
Neither can he, by longing, waiting, praying, pleading,
Add one kilometer per hour to the turn of the Earth's axis.

So I sit among the clear-cut wasteland of my life,
Waiting for the sun to bring the color back into my world,
And gild the ashes with gold and chlorophyll.