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.