One Sunday
All our weeks seem to be a collective weekend,
An endlessness of weekends
Distilled into this one Sunday,
This one glorious Lord's morning
Scurried with squirrels, high in the oak tree,
Loading the diaphanous sun shafts,
With their nutty dust-motes,
This one Sunday entwined with honeysuckle vines
Weighted by flowers dripping sticky sunshine —
Godly, glistening, golden goblets
Sipped by hundreds of hovering hummingbirds...
Love's perpetual day of rest,
Its blessed embrace of our were, am, and will be,
Time itself begging us for our immortality.
05/08/11 - (1)
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