I've Seen the Burning Day Rise Too Soon by Ray Succre

​It lifts from bird ashes, a sun-heap on heads,
so each blessed clasp of eyes around air
finds with ease, they say, their assembled maker.

A god is more prevalent on warm days.

Neverending multitudes have gimped in the ice,
only to wetly emerge from no grave
but those planned in the heart,
and from this rare sunlight,
and this joy, they travel,
having eaten heat and become heat.

When this long-hoped Sun deports its light
slow behind the lip,
the cold holds them lastly like embers.