When I lay
my last tool aside
and turn to the West
to see the sunset
I know I will think
of how long it took
for the sun to cross
the pale hot sky.
I will imagine that my birth
brought heat and light,
though I was born
in late winter at night;
I make a myth
of who I am
as any one of us might,
as any number of us do.
The trick is to allow
a myth to be not a lie,
but a story told on behalf
of the truth, even if facts
fit imperfectly, even if
it changes as one lays
a last tool aside
at sunset, at rest.