God the Sun by Rachel L. McMullen
The cosmos is all there is, all there ever was, and all there ever will be.” – Carl Sagan
There he is, the solar deity. He tips his hat to the evening, and later lets loose a slight, knowing grin when the night can no longer stand its ground. He sits in the morning garden, praising the soil, touching the trees, licking the love of the earth. He moves at mass, pulling his weight with the congregation, calling himself “Day.” He speaks the universal language, tense and progressive when he must bow to his humble satellites. He acts as a main sequence star, a giant to the dwarfs found on the Walk of Fame, strutting and streaking across the celestial dome. He works the inner rim, tucked under the minor arm of Orion, wrapping his neon fingers around the hunter’s belted waist. He serves as an interstellar medium, predicting the rise and fall of humanity in the light-years to come. He stands in his wake, shining and glowing, bursting on the scene unless he is feeling under the weather. He reflects the yellow-green, spanning the spectrum of continuum, burning until the light goes out. There he is, the absolute magnitude, the stellar G2V, the cosmic microwave, the galactic center.
Rachel L. McMullen is a teacher, freelance writer, editor, and poet. Her work can be found in Oracle Fine Arts Review, Three Line Poetry, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere. She is the Co-Founder and Managing Editor of Random Sample Review.